


A World Upended

by sfumatosoup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Blind Date, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gay Bar, Love Confessions, M/M, Mystery, OC is a plot device, Requited Love, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Content, Tropes, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Sexual Tension, follows Sir ACDverse in a modern adaptation to some extent, requited lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 71,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfumatosoup/pseuds/sfumatosoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is relentlessly pursued by a coworker, which all leads to an inevitable revelation by Sherlock. How will John react to this? (originally posted on ff.net in 2011)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Author: Sfumatosoup

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Genre: Angst/Romance/Adventure/Humour

Disclaimer: I do not own. All Gatiss and Moffat and Doyle. No plan to profit.

Rating: Mature. 

Warning: Spoilers for all BBC eps in Season 1 (story diverges after since it was written in 2011) as well as for canon FINA, SIGN and EMPT (eventually). All main characters and even one or two OC's. Not brit-picked and self-beta'd so if you see errors or things that need to be changed please let me know.

Summary: John is relentlessly pursued by a coworker, which all leads to an inevitable revelation by Sherlock. How will John react to this?

…

"Christ!"

The small break room in this particular Clinic in Paddington was the sole site for an array of expletives, abuse against refrigerators and cappuccino machines, kicked water coolers, and otherwise a rather volatile array of unleashed hysterics among the staff.

Not to say that they were particularly hysterical.

In fact, all the staff were, really quite mild-mannered, professionally calm, temperate people. It was only that, behind the closed door of that particular room, tempers flared and drama worthy of any reality show had a tendency to take place. The fact was, the office was too small, they had far too many patients, and even those of the most stalwart of heart were prone at times, and quite worthy to have, small emotional collapses. Hence, known as the Break 'Down' Room, it was not at all surprising when Sarah came rushing out of her office in a huff, red in the face and slammed shut the door behind her.

John shared a look with Amal as he poured a cup of coffee into Sarah's usual mug.

"That utter witch! I was just trying to explain to her the adverse interactions of crossing Digoxin with her Verapimil-" John handed her the steaming mug and she sighed, "I'm sorry, I'm just so exhausted. These people are monsters today. One can only take so much abuse. I became a Doctor to help people and I'm starting to regret that decision."

Amal laughed, "Only four more appointments until lunch. Think you'll pull through?"

In the recent few months, the clinic had obtained a new Senior House Officer due to the increased volume in patients. The Hindi intern was a transplant from Durham and on the cusp of receiving his license. He apparently fit right in to the London Hub, and was desperately hoping to be hired on as a permanent clinic physician.

"Thank God, Amal, we took you on when we did or I think I'd be on the edge of an aneurism," Sarah smiled up at John, "By the way, thanks for the pick me up, love." He nodded.

"John and I are going off for a nip after work, care to join?"

Sarah shook her head, "No, thank you, all I want to do is go home, take a long, hot shower, curl up on the couch and watch some bad telly."

Amal grinned, "Fair enough."

…

"Sherlock. What the bloody hell is this."

John frowned as he walked through the door of their shared flat of 221B, to face his friend and flat mate crouched down on the floor, hovering over several small (drowned?) indeterminate mammals laid out over a tarp.

"Looking for a flash drive."

"Do I even want to know why you'd think to find one in—what is that a… chihuahua?"

"Fennec fox. Exotic pet hoader. Paranoid Schizophrenic type 295.30. Had a fondness for hacking."

"Had."

"Dead. Obvious. Drowned himself and the animals."

"This really isn't the place for a forensic investigation. The Yard know you have these here?"

"No time, John. Dead man's lover's life is in jeopardy."

John grinned, "Sounds interesting. A case for the blog?"

"Don't bother, boring."

"Right then," John frowned, disappointed, "I'll let you keep to that."

"How's the boyfriend?"

John glared, "Shut up."

"Pass me the forceps?"

"No."

Sherlock looked up furrowing his brow, "Is there a reason you're being a prig?"

"And the prig said to the prat, 'up yours'," John quipped navigating around the obstacle in the middle of the room.

"You know I'm right!" Sherlock shouted as John made his way up the stairs.

"Bugger off!" He shouted back, cringing slightly, because honestly it wasn't very mature to feed into Sherlock's bating, and it would probably just make him even worse.

_Insufferable git!_

Thank God for his room. In ways, it provided a comfort reminiscent of his teenage years; that brief transitory time of chaos, where he could just escape all the world and just put on a vinyl and shut it out.

The blaring, angry crescendos and banging drums of the music in his Eaton's, providing a sound barrier muffling out the drunken shouting of his father, or Harry being herself; a literal maelstrom of rebellious dissention. The fighting, the hysterics, the typical woes of fighting off hormones and all that that entailed, all of it, drowned out by Led Zeppelin or the Clash or the Dickies.

Except, without the posters and knickknacks of youth. His room now, quite barren of all but the most basic of necessities, safe. Sane. Plain. Characterless. Sterile. The one safe haven against all the outside world where there wouldn't be any small animal corpses or stubbornly smug flat mates.

Flat mates which had become far, far too important in ways John could barely allow himself to consider.

Which was why it was that much more aggravating that he let the abrasive man get under his skin with snide running commentary and patently false accusations.

(Why did he have to care what the man thought. Why should it matter.)

…

Another reprieve was Amal.

Who was not, in fact, his  _boyfriend._  As Sherlock seemed far too preoccupied with pointing out.

The short, slender man, fresh out of medical school, had a baby-faced look about him, though was not much younger than John, himself.

He had taken to John immediately, following him around, diligently taking notes, and asking a thousand questions a minute. Yet somehow, despite his exhausting, indefatigable pursuance, John was admittedly flattered and rather endeared to play the part of the lauded mentor.

Eventually, (to his utter relief), Amal cooled down and the two became comfortably companionable on a more equal basis. They had taken to lunching together and it was quite nice to have normal conversation. With someone other than his bevy of exes. Or Stamford (the man was utterly mundane). Or Sherlock who was not capable of normal conversation (understatement). Actually, it was an outlet for John, that he sorely needed after level-headedly putting up with the Consulting Detective's shenanigans that bordered on—well, they were rather extreme, (Another understatement).

"I swear she's driving me mad. It's as if I betrayed her by moving 300 miles away."

John grinned, "You should have seen my own, when I told her I was joining the Army. Had a conniption. Just about hit me over the head with a rolling pin."

Amal laughed, "So that's why you never moved back home when you were discharged."

Well, in all honesty, it had been more than that. He couldn't face her, after his father had passed. The man had righted himself, gotten sober, sent him off to Uni with all expenses paid as way of apology. Not that John had been ready to forget. Or forgive.

Particularly, Harry's decline into their father's former footsteps. She was a mess, and he partially attributed it to both of them. She'd outed herself at 14, and had nearly been estranged until she could escape at 18. Abandoned to an unwilling John. He'd been barely out of Uni, trying to scrape together his MD, when he'd been forced to scrape her back off the floor. Then Clara had come round into the picture. Thankfully.

He'd thought he was finally free when he joined the military, only to come home to find her once again nearly in the gutter. At the very least she somehow maintained a job, kept up with rent. Forced into AA by concerned friends. Which she had always had by the dozens. For all her faults she was unusually outwardly charming, optimistic, funny. Possessing of a Jois de Vivre masking underlying depression, tendency toward self-harm.

Which was why he desperately sought to live anywhere else but with her again. His own depression was immense at having been ejected from the one place he'd felt confident, felt alive, and now saddled back into the mundane of everyday… he couldn't envision assuming the burden of Harry's problems as well as his own. And she had begged him, and he was about to reconsider due to his lack of other options and waning finances just before fate had run him into Stamford. Thank bloody God, for that man.

But really, it was like trading one form of chaos for another, what with Sherlock. In many ways, the two were vaguely similar. Uniquely self-destructive, charismatic, obsessive, chemically dependent and prone to histrionics. Only Sherlock had some kind of odd mastery over himself that Harry had always lacked. And for some reason, when he was with him, beside him, or racing about after him, he felt a fulfillment that he'd never had with any other companion, associate, friend, lover, family member, etc.

And just as he was strangely possessive and protective over Harry (even though she was the older sibling), he felt similarly for Sherlock.

He'd shot a bloke for him, after all, barely even knowing the man for more than 48 hours.

John wasn't necessarily trigger happy, but he wouldn't think twice before taking someone out if they dared prove threat to his loved ones.

(God, when had he allocated Sherlock into that list?)

He glanced at Amal and sipped his coffee, now having gone quite cold. Where was the bloody waitress for a top off when you need her?

"So anyway, John, as I was unpacking, I came across this old sweater Mum had knitted back in Primary for me, and I was like, 'how on earth did this get in here'! I think that woman has some kind of mission-"

John laughed, as Amal's mobile rang, "How much do you want to bet that that's her?"

"Oh. Perfect. You're right, speak of the devil." Amal sighed apologetically, "Sorry, I have to take this or she won't stop pestering me."

Amal spoke into the phone in rapid Farci, as John paid their bill.

It was strange the differences in relationships with family. He wondered sometimes if his folks had been different, if maybe he'd be more… stable. Normal.

In many ways, he was a different man than he'd thought he'd be. Imagined he'd be growing up. Or at the very least, the one he'd thought he'd wanted to be.

He'd wanted so much to prove to himself that he'd wanted that kind of life. His parents were utterly disappointed in Harry, and John, at a very young age, very much sought their approval even in spite of his resentment for them. So much that he'd forgotten himself underneath the weight of trying to be someone else.

And he had tried. He'd received his PhD. Disentangled himself from his cumbersome sister to Clara. Tried himself, for a normal relationship. Tried to put the past aside, suppress his desire for something else. Something more. Even tried with Catharine. Tried the engagement thing. And he didn't want any of it. At all.

John had joined up with the Army, designated as a medic, fled Queen and Country and all that that had implied and reveled in it. For a time, a brilliant time, it freed him. Gave him purpose and quenched the thirst for fulfillment the medical profession had sorely lacked, that his life had sorely lacked. He'd thought that stint in A&E trauma ward would be enough, but nothing compared to the thrill, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he dodged around bullets whizzing past, wary of possible mines underfoot, desperately trying to save lives and stay alive to do so.

Yet still, there was that nagging, underlying pull toward that sense of conformity. He felt compelled to answer to it. As if it was his duty.

Which was why, his life being pulled so far astray now as it was, he felt even more so, that he had to cling to the last threads of normalcy remaining.

John and Amal parted ways, and he walked home trying to clear his head.

The truth was, they'd been going out for lunch as well as after work quite often recently and Sherlock not only noticed but seemed to make a personal vendetta to plague John with all types of lurid insinuations.

Which, if he was truthful, hit jarringly close to home.

And he hated it. So the best approach was to ignore it and keep denying it.

Not a strategy, he reminded himself, but the truth of it.

Really.

"Lestrade phoned. Coming?"

"Actually I made plans with Amal-"

"Priorities John," Sherlock sighed, "Priorities before boyfriend."

What was worse was it wasn't just Sherlock.

Everyone else seemed inclined to follow suit: and then began the office gossip. "So the two of you- rather chummy wouldn't you say?" Harold implied.

"What."

"Well you know, you should watch it John, or we all might start thinking the two of you are… well you know." His coworker made a limp wrist and smirked.

"That's ridiculous," John sneered.

"I suspect he's a bit of a shirt-lifter-"

"Oh just ignore him, John. Please, Harold, can you be any more boorish!" Sarah accused.

A seed of doubt planted itself in John, however, and he couldn't but help reevaluating the lingering glances, the hesitant touches on his shoulder or back. The moments where Amal just looked at him a bit too…fondly.

And there was the interminable, endless talk.

" _People do little else."_

John sighed.

He wanted to ignore it. What did it matter anyway? It was fine. It was all fine. John couldn't be arsed to care whether or not the bloke was bent, it was none of his business.

And so he continued as always with Amal.

Yet, maybe it wouldn't be a bad thing to abate a few of the rumours. Certainly couldn't hurt. Since Sarah, it had been a number of months since he'd gone out with anyone properly.

John made his way to the front of the office, and spotted the pretty receptionist. Her blonde hair was daintily cropped into a bob that curled around her ears, framing her delicate, finely featured face.

"Hi, Diane."

"Oh, hi Doctor Watson!"

"John. And how are you today?"

"Busy. So, so busy," she moaned, "When will it be time for lunch break?"

"Would you like to join me on it?"

"Oh no. Thank you, Doctor Watson-"

"-John."

"You see, I've brought my lunch already," she stated placatingly with a little frown and wide, sad eyes.

"Right, some other time then."

She smiled placidly, without responding.

…

Back in the break room, John strolled in and found Harold and Diane by the microwave prattling on about something or another while Amal and Sarah seemed engaged in discussion regarding food.

John's stomach growled discontentedly and he made for the fridge.

"John and I had the best Cantonese over in Bayswater, just to die for," Amal informed Sarah, "That man has a serious knack for knowing all the good places in town. He's a real keeper." Amal laughed and John cringed as Harold and Diane shared a 'look'.

That was  _not_  on.

He frowned down at the sandwich in his hand. Not very appetizing anymore.

Sarah caught John's expression and leveled him a pointed 'look'.

Later in the day she sat down across from him in his office as he catalogued patient diagnoses and prescription cards in order to prepare for typing them in.

"About earlier," she sighed, "You know, it's been good to see the two of you get on, I mean, you really need some time away from that flat mate of yours. So don't listen to idle gossip. He's a nice guy, John."

"I don't. I couldn't care less what they think, really."

He tried to believe that. (Really, he did.) Only, it was very annoying that Sherlock kept asserting the gay clause in reference to Amal, and John kept assuring himself, it didn't matter.

Of course it didn't matter. And it's not like he'd be interested in him anyway. And even if he was, that was fine. It was flattering if anything, John was no homophobe. (I mean really, after all, after years with Harry's friends…)

And so they went out for lunch, yet again the following day.

"There's this fantastic club, I think the name is Via, or something, up in Manchester, I was there the other night, on my way back from visiting home. It's ultra swanky."

John had unfortunately read about it in the paper. Up on Canal. Which meant the infamous 'gay district'. Damn it. He groaned inwardly. And changed the subject, trying to be discreet about it.

"You hear about that earthquake in Turkey?"

"Oh! Yeah, and did you hear about that baby pulled from the rubble?"

"Saw a pic of it in Huffington. Incredible to believe she lived!"

"I love Huffington post. Addictive, that. I have the app for it on my phone."

"More reliable than BBC news, or at the very least, more interesting."

"Agreed. Right as ever, John," Amal replied smiling fondly at his companion.

(It was obvious the man admired him a bit too keenly.)

"I have to say, some of those pics in the Entertainment are quite interesting."

"Oh my God," John cracked, grimacing, "The Duchess of Alba. I don't think I can unsee that photo of her."

"An 85 year old Cougar. Fabulous."

"With no blouse is not 'fabulous'."

Amal laughed and slapped a hand on John's back. Which remained, a bit too long.

So, John noticed.

It couldn't really be helped. His flirting was subtle, but not subtle enough, and John had been around the block and back, he wasn't that naïve. He'd employed several of the same tricks with women he'd been interested in: the coffees or teas, the lunches, the casual, non-insinuating suppers, the jokes, the banter, the compliments, the arm brushes, the light shoulder touches…

"Boyfriend."

John refused to reply and Sherlock smirked, looking all together too self-satisfied for John's taste, (quite irking). So much so, that he decided to abandon his flat mate and head on downstairs to share a nice cuppa with Mrs. Hudson. (As usual she coos over him playing Mother Hen, fixes him some cakes, and doesn't say anything too much, which is really surprising since usually she's terribly nosy for a bit of gossip), but seems to sense, for once, that it would be counterproductive.

John never felt so ridiculously grateful.

He was sorely tempted to send in a suggestion to Oxford Dictionary Britannica, reestablishing the term 'Headache' to be redefined as 'Sherlock'.

…

It seemed, however, the man was warily aware of John's exacerbation. And really quite unhappy of it.

Surprising. When did Sherlock ever give a damn about anything other than himself?

At any rate, he seemed to go out of his way over the next couple days to wheedle his way back into John's good graces.

Hadn't said a damned thing to annoy him. In fact, was even rather polite.

Alarmingly, he made John tea one evening.

Even the proper way he liked.

Implying he actually paid attention to John. A bit unnerving.

Left him notes if he was going off somewhere, and not to worry, he'd be back later, at this specific time.

He even caught him once or twice, almost… (smiling at him?)

That was off.

And then, to his astonishment, he complimented John's blog on their latest case together. Left a comment:

'A surprisingly concise scientific documentation, John.'

Which was funny, since it varied little from any of the other's he'd written.

At any rate, this refreshing change in demeanor, though unsettling, was not wholly unwelcome.

(Well it was a bit.)

It was almost, for a moment, as if he was living with a stranger.

A very considerate, kind stranger.

John wasn't altogether sure if he liked this. His psychiatrist had said (back in the days he still made regular visits) he had a small bit of a trust issue. Which was true, really. But he couldn't help thinking it was all rather suspect.

In any case, he concluded, perhaps Sherlock had given up on the needling taunts. Or at least making a pest of himself at John's expense.

(Wrong.)

…

Days, later, John opened the refrigerator to toss out a few of the more precarious unlabeled containers, and noticed they were once again out of milk; a staple in Sherlock's rather sparing diet. So, John donned his coat to set out for Tesco's.

For once, his flat mate tagged along. Of course, he wasn't there to help with the groceries, rather, he didn't trust that John would actually pick up the other things he'd jotted down on the list at the last moment.

" _Acetone… ammonia, hydrogen peroxide, aluminum foil, kerosene, pseudephadrine…Sherlock! I can't get these- they'll think I'm some kind of meth-head terrorist!"_

Sherlock had darted off down the pharmaceutical aisle and abandoned John in produce.

"Oh, John! Hi!"

John looked up whipping his head around in an attempt to spot the subject of the voiced greeting.

Amal grinned broadly, waving as he neared him from around the cantaloupes, pushing his cart.

"Fancy meeting you here!" He laughed. John's heart sank practically falling through the linoleum tiles, hoping Sherlock wouldn't come strolling around in the next minute or so.

But as usual, hoping never came to any fruition when it involved Sherlock.

John cursed his luck as he spotted him. The unmistakable mop of black curls popping up from around a high, four-way soap display, and he nearly leapt from around it, with far too gleeful an expression. (The kind he got when an experiment proved successful, the 'Aha!' of fascinated interest.)

John groaned inwardly.

"Oh, this must be the Intern!" Sherlock exclaimed, as he approached, ducking behind John and circling his long, spindly arms around him possessively _._  (What?)

He dropped a quick peck on his cheek and John indignantly yanked himself away.

"Sherlock! What-"

"-It's great to meet you," Sherlock interjected, feigning an affected air, draping an arm around John's shoulders, "John here, talks about you all the time, I'm almost jealous." His grin was blinding, and John gaped in confusion, awkwardly shrugging off the offending arm, attempting to distance himself.

Sherlock stuck out his hand, and Amal tentatively took it.

"And you must be…"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah yes, his roommate."

"Flat mate!" John corrected, seeing red.

"He didn't tell me the two of you were-"

"Oh, yes, John and I have been partners for the past year, we get on quite well," Sherlock declared with a smirking glance in John's direction.

John paled, horrified. "Colleagues!" he sputtered, "He means we're colleagues. I told you about it. I sometimes assist him on his cases."

"Yes, John knows just how to assist me," Sherlock leered.

Catching the implication, Amal started, "Oh, I-"

"-Sherlock!" John bit out in humiliation, "No, Amal. He means- Sherlock stop it!"

The taller man, yet again, draped an arm back around his neck and affectionately nuzzled John's short, blonde locks, breath blowing pleasantly warm against his scalp, and John shuddered before forcefully pulling himself away for the third time.

"Yes, well," Sherlock drawled, unbothered by John's scowl in his direction, "It was an absolute pleasure to meet you at last, John here, just speaks the world of you."

Amal flushed looking pleased and a small bit baffled, and Sherlock grinned, "But I must be off, and don't worry John, I'll grab the lube."

Sherlock dashed off, leaving John flushed, utterly mortified. "He means from automotive!" He explained, his ears feeling hot.

"Right," Amal responded, smiling not unkindly at the other man's discomfort.

"Seriously Amal, don't get the wrong idea, Sherlock is-" He exhaled with exasperation, "-we're not an item. Not even close. I'm not with him."

"Alright. No worries, John," Amal nodded, holding his hands up in capitulation, "You're single, I know. You complain about it often enough, so I believe you."

John huffed out a breath in irritation, feeling the red ebb from his complexion, "Er. Good. That's good."

"Right John, I'll see you at the Clinic tomorrow, then," he smiled, "Got to fly. You know, hop the Tube before my shows are on. New episode of the Doctor. Absolutely must see."

"Oh! Yes. Sure. Tomorrow then," John nodded.

Damn.

John could still feel the kiss burning on his cheek like a brand.

Damn.

…

"Sherlock! What was that!"

"Hmm."

John glared at the man accusingly, "Back at Tesco's. You made us look like we were some kind of…  _thing_  or something. You deliberately implied we were having it off together."

"Hardly. He still believes you're single."

"And now he thinks I'm… _gay_ and _single._  Thanks."

"Your protestations to the contrary didn't aide your case."

"Sherlock. What were you playing at."

"Thought I'd help. Make it look like you were off the market."

"It didn't work."

Sherlock shrugged, "Evidently."

"So thanks for making it worse!" John groaned, slapping a palm to his face, "Real good job, there. You might've warned me you were going to do that."

"I was attempting to turn you a favour," Sherlock defended casually, "Thought you might appreciate a bit of assistance."

"Yeah, real good. Remind me to warn you off of those in the future," John grimaced, "Your brand of 'favours' are  _lethal_."

"Exaggeration."

"What?"

"You don't look very post-mortem."

"I feel a bit," John snapped, shaking his head in disbelief.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Another exaggeration."

"Well I may as well be. Look, now he thinks I'm…  _that way_. And it's going to get around the office, and it's not what I want people to think," John sighed, "Enough people already think you and I are  _involved_ , and you go off and flauntingly confirm all suspicions. In _public_ , nonetheless."

"We are involved," Sherlock countered.

"No. Sherlock. We are not  _involved._ "

"I see no difference."

"God! You are so impossible!" John groaned, pinching his eyes shut.

"This idea… that we're involved bothers you," Sherlock droned. "You know it's not the truth, and I know it's not the truth, why should it bother you what other people think," he yawned, stretching over and snagging his violin case.

John gaped incredulously, "Women are hardly going to be inclined to accept a date with a bloke they think is off  _buggering_  his roommate."

" _Flat mate_ ," Sherlock corrected, calmly plucking at the Strad, "And besides, what makes you think you'd be the one doing the _buggering_?"

"I really hate you," John growled.

"Unlikely assertion," Sherlock quipped.

…

Alright, hate was a bit of a strong word.

Yes, Sherlock had a strange inclination toward startlingly off kilter humour. This was a fact which John had grown accustomed.

He'd admittedly tolerated, accepted and otherwise grown rather fond of many of the man's more peculiar quirks of character, many of which, were quite understandably less appreciated by the vast majority of others, or society as a whole.

It was only that, it was extremely frustrating when he turned it all on John.

The constant haranguing. The implications. Just another way to amuse himself at John's expense?

And now this. Fuck, if this wasn't absurd beyond all reckoning.

Yet his justifications had almost seemed… generous?

No. Completely out of character. Either way. Regardless of the motive, he'd just made an utter mess of it.

It wasn't as if John hadn't enough to deal with, what with everyone within their mutual acquaintance (and a few of his blog followers) already assuming things between him and Sherlock, and now he had Amal to deal with at work as well.

The worst part of all of it, was that Sherlock never bothered to deny the jibes in their direction. It was as if he didn't even notice the pointed looks. The talk.

Which always continued in spite of John's tireless defense to the contrary.

Sherlock deemed himself too elevated to be arsed about trivialities of social convention. Really, everything was secondary to the work.

Like the time John had received that citation (wrongfully) for property vandalism. Goddamn Banksy. If he was Banksy that is. No one could be quite sure on that. Though, he suspected if anyone knew the rogue artist's identity it had to be Sherlock. Not that he would say, of course.

For all of his bloody single-mindedness, his isolating focus, maybe Sally Donovan had been correct in her original assessment; her warning to John when the two had first met.

John flipped over onto his stomach smothering his face down into his pillow.

_High-functioning Sociopath._

Unhealthy to care about one.

Particularly since it was more than just being alright with being the man being a social pariah and not giving a penny for anyone other than himself. He was ridiculously cavalier about his own life. His own wellbeing. It was no wonder that Mycroft worried about him constantly. He was a literal, immeasurable risk to himself.

The man simply jumped at the word, 'Danger'.

Not that John was any different. He urgently leapt right after him.

Gladly. Without a second thought.

He idly mused if everyone could see his utter deterioration into insanity. He did keep a blog of it, so to speak, it wasn't as if it was any secret. Not the insanity literally, just factually disclosing in so many words that he followed the mad bloke about after criminals, which was, in essence, a clear admittance of said insanity.

The pillow was a bit suffocating just then, and John tossed over to his side, tucking up his knees as he had as a young child. Hadn't been able to in ages since Afghanistan.

The psychosomatic pain rendering him with a limp was all but a memory past, except when he was particularly emotionally done in.

And as if evoked by simply thinking of it, the pain suddenly flared.

He was emotionally done in.

John stretched his leg wearily, shaking out the phantom cramping.

(Damn it.)

He heard the man through the floor beneath him, downstairs manically pacing about.

(Damn him.)

John drifted off to sleep that night lulled by the strains of Sarasate's  _Rondo Capriccioso._

His dreams were unaccounted for when he awoke, in the middle of the night.

4:00 a.m. the clock blared in red lettering. All was silent downstairs so he imagined the man had worn himself out, finally.

Throat dry, he padded down the steps and into the loo to fill up a glass of water.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he tried to refrain from conjuring the image of Sherlock behind him, holding him, breathing into his short blonde locks which now, after several hours of fitful sleep, were standing on end in disarray on one side of his head and plastered to the other.

Splashing water into his face, he stared at himself. The tired lines beneath his eyes, the creases in his forehead.

He looked older than he ought and felt that way too.

Stress. Like Atlas; weighed down by the world.

He wiped up the remaining water dripping from his chin and frowned wearily.

Somewhere out there, there was a grave that was digging itself, a tombstone with his name on it.

He hated feeling so stupidly melodramatic. He'd face this as he had anything else. Nothing to be done for it.

…

Amal sat down across the resin table, topping off his mug, as John sat, cradling his face in his hands.

"Don't worry. I didn't say anything, John. I know how it is in the work world. Folks aren't always so accepting."

John glanced up at Amal catching his twinkling expression and frowned. "That. Yesterday? I was honestly telling you the truth. Sherlock and I? That's not going on. He just… he acts. You know? He does it for his own amusement. He gets off on it or something."

Amal smiled kindly.

"As I said, John, don't worry about it. The two of you aren't involved. I understand."

John breathed out a sigh of relief. Amal really was an upstanding bloke.

Thankfully, to John's relief, they changed the subject and argued for a bit about the recent Leeds United vs. Manchester match, and Amal suggested supper.

John agreed.

…

"Getting ready for your date?"

"It's not a date, Sherlock."

"You're wearing your Loughton Merino. It's a date."

"Its supper. Mates. Going for supper. Not a date."

"Oranges and apples."

"What?"

"Whatever you call them, they're still fruit."

John winced.

"It's a logical assumption that when a homosexual man asks another man he presumes is of according bent out to supper, that he considers it a date."

"Not. A. Date," John bit out, pulling on his jacket, "I'm leaving now. Sherlock."

"Have a good time, John," Sherlock leered, "On your  _date._  With your  _date._ "

John seethed. It was very much not a  _date_.

…

Amal leaned back in his chair and gazed over his wine glass at his companion, "I'm very glad we've become friends, John."

John felt the familiar flush creep onto his face.

"Oh, yes. Well."

"You know," Amal smiled, his teeth bright against his swarthy complexion, "I got out of this…relationship back six months ago, and when I moved here, I was so nervous. You know? Leaving all my mates and my family back in Durham, but you really put me to ease."

The man gently touched the tips of John's fingers resting on the table. "You're really… a good man, John."

John pressed his lips together, anxiously conscious of the other man's direct expression, and pulled his hand back into his lap, fingers still tingling from the light touch.

"Yes," John cleared his throat, "Well, we certainly get on just fine. You've er…proven yourself highly at the clinic. I wouldn't be surprised if you were offered something permanent."

Amal grinned.

"I'd definitely put in a word for you."

"That means a lot that you would say so, John. I very much respect your opinion," he said fondly, "as you know."

They continued on companionably well into the night.

And John sighed inwardly. Alright, so perhaps the man had a small… crush. It didn't hurt anyone. And he was sort of flattered if not a bit wary. He hated that Sherlock was probably right about the 'date' thing.

…

"So. You're back late."

John looked up to find Sherlock fiddling with some peculiar contraption, while the telly flickered silently in the background.

"I take it your date went well."

John sighed, "Look Sherlock, he's a good friend. We have a lot in common. He might be a bit…fond. Of me. But it doesn't mean anything. Doesn't matter."

Sherlock shrugged dismissively, and John joined him taking a seat and flipping the telly off from mute.

He made a decision then and there.

…

"Hi Diane," John greeted as the receptionist came into the break room.

"Hi, Dr. Watson," She nodded cordially.

"John," he corrected and cleared his throat, "I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite later. If you're free."

"Oh," She stopped, looking at John with a small, puzzled frown, "I er. Would love to. But. I'm…I've a friend in town. She'd be a bit put out if I abandoned her. You know, she's sort of not from… around here?"

"Oh. That's fine. No problem. Another time, then."

"Yeah," she responded strangely, and all but bolted out the door as Amal entered.

"She looked like she was in a hurry," he said with an amused smirk.

"Uh. Yeah," John frowned.

Damn. Damn. It couldn't be what he thought. No. Scratch the idea.

Amal heated up water in a mug for some tea.

"So. Guess what," he prodded excitedly.

John glanced up. Oh right. That.

He hid his grin.

Amal had, days before, at last received his license, and earlier that morning, John had handed in a glowing recommendation for him. The Resident was promptly promoted, appointed to a position as a staff physician and now a permanent fixture in the Paddington clinic. Sarah had informed him earlier of the decision, but John let the buoyant man tell him anyway.

"I got it."

"Oh! Good!" John replied, smiling kindly.

"Thank you. John. Your reference was the clincher. Sarah told me so. I don't-" Amal blushed, gazing at John with glowing eyes, "-I don't even know what to say. It was really good of you."

"It wasn't anything. Don't worry about it. I'm sure my letter made no difference, you would have been hired on anyway. You're a brilliant Doctor, and you deserved the promotion."

"Let me thank you in some way," Amal replied sitting down across from him. "Let's go out. To the Pub. My treat."

John sighed, "You really don't have to…"

"No. Consider it a celebration. A party."

Sarah walked in and put a sandwich in the refrigerator. John grinned. Perfect. Well if it was a 'party'…

"Sarah, we're going out to celebrate after work, do you want to join us?" John offered.

Sarah exchanged a strange, cryptic look with Amal. "Well, er. Thank you for asking, but I've got... plans," She smiled, "But, congratulations, Amal. You definitely deserved it."

Amal smiled back. A little to gratefully, John mused warily.

…

They sat companionably watching the game, and ordered another round of house tap.

"Oh! I forgot to mention. A few days ago I called into Panjab. They were holding a contest for some tickets to the Bollywood film festival premier at Millbank next week."

"Oh?" John laughed, "Not the one with the pole dancers I hope."

"Desi boys? Already saw it," Amal grinned, "Nah, actually it's that Turkish detective bloke from that one show. Behzat C. He's supposed to be some kind of maverick homicide Detective."

"Oh, God. I have more than my fill of those."

"Anyway," Amal rolled his eyes, "So I answered all the questions right, and won two tickets! My first thought was my sister Nisha, but she's gone out of town for work that weekend. So…you should join me, John!"

Alright. Why not.

"Sure. Sounds good, thanks."

…

"When should we expect the happy announcement?"

John cringed, "You know Mycroft said the same thing about us, right? And we're just friends. So why do you imply that this is somehow different?"

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes.

"Please, John. Really," he sardonically drawled.

"It's nothing momentous. Just an extra ticket to see some movie next weekend."

"Date."

"Not-"

"-Date. With boyfriend."

"Movie. With friend."

"Gay."

"Not gay," John bit out, utterly frustrated.

Sherlock smirked and leaned back, propping his feet up on John's lap, "Are you sure?"

"Get your feet off me."

"Make me."

John sat up dumping off the offending appendages.

"I hate you."

"You've been saying that with regularity of recent. I'm beginning to believe you less and less."

John scowled.

"It's. not. a. date."

"A rendezvous with a paramour."

"Shut it."

"Shut what?"

"You're a complete moron- I'm going up to my room."

"For a good sulk, or to plan what you're going to wear for the grand gala? I suggest the Gant. It's very sharp on you," Sherlock leered.

Why did he put up with it?

"It's getting a bit old, Sherlock."

"You mean your protests?" He barbed, calling out, as John stormed up the steps.

If there could have been a dark, thunderous cloud over his head there would have been.

…

John sauntered over to the front of waiting room with staunch determination, leaned an elbow on the desk and peered kindly down at Diane.

"Hi."

"Oh. Doctor Watson! Hi!"

"John. I was wondering if you were free tonight."

"Oh, er…"

"Tomorrow night then?"

"Well Dr. Watson…"

"John. Your friend is still in town then?

She sighed. "Look Dr. Watson-"

"-John."

"You are really sweet to ask. I mean it's very nice and I would, under, well… under other circumstances consider going on a date with you but…"

John furrowed his brow. "You've a boyfriend then?" he queried with growing frustration, "Then what? Are you opposed to the whole 'office romance' bit? I mean it's fine if you're not interested-"

"No, it's not that. Its just well… I know about you and…" Diane cleared her throat with a little  _'ahem'_  as Amal walked in, aiming her look in his direction. "I don't want to stir any trouble between you two."

"Diane!" John retorted with exasperation, "You've really got the wrong idea."

"What? You two are very cute together, and I know it's all very 'hush-hush'," she leaned over with a conspiring grin, "It's totally fine by me if you're… you know… _gay_."

"What!" John shouted, then looked around self consciously as patients glanced up at him in consternation. Lowering his voice he hissed, "'Im not…  _gay_. Wait… is that what everyone's saying? That I'm gay? Who's saying that...Harold? I'm not. Really."

"Look, I know it's like some kind of secret, so you don't have to worry, I won't say anything," she replied earnestly, in a soothing manner that riled John even further.

Just then, Amal approached, "Hi John, Diane." He nodded.

"Oh, hi Amal!" Diane chirped.

"I really enjoyed last night, John," He smiled warmly.

Oh, not at all good.

"Er-" John sputtered.

Diane giggled sweetly.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go out for lunch. Some Thai or something," he propositioned, casually laying a hand on John's arm.

Flushing, John quickly yanked his arm back, "I'm actually busy."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Paperwork. Going to stay in. Get some of it done."

"Oh, don't worry John, I can do that for you-" Diane offered.

"-No. no. I'd rather see to it myself, thank you."

"Oh, not a problem. I've some as well. I can grab us some crisps and subs from the vending machine, and we'll camp out in your office and do it together."

Diane all but snickered and John glowered.

"Well, what do you say?"

Sarah strode toward the desk, and laid down some files.

"No," John bit out impatiently, "I'd rather do it alone."

"Oh. Fine. That's…er, fine, no problem," Amal frowned looking confused and a bit hurt, "I'll see you later then."

As he walked away, Sarah cleared her throat, "That wasn't very kind of you. I thought the two of you were friends."

"Yeah?" John grimaced, pulling her off to the side, "Well that was until everyone started implying we were some kind of…item."

Sarah crossed her arms, tapping her foot with irritation, "Honestly, John, since when do care about a little harmless gossip?"

"Since it's prevented very nice, attractive young women from accepting dates with me, thank you. I've been really very patient about it all. Ignoring it. But I've had enough of this," John expostulated, "It's like everyone here has somehow forgotten that you and I dated last year. That I actually like women."

"John, we hardly dated, and you haven't been out with anyone since. Have you? Anything serious? And besides, we didn't even kiss. Not even when you kipped at my place that one night."

"Other than the fact that my overbearing flat mate pretty much thwarted all of my attempts to do so… I try to be a gentleman," John frowned at her speculative look, "Wait. You think I'm gay too. Don't you."

"Oh, John, it doesn't matter what I think-"

"-Jesus!" John exhaled with sheer frustration, eyes rolling heavenward, "What is wrong with all of you!"

"Look, it doesn't matter-"

"No! You think I'm in the closet or something. Fuck me. This is ridiculous. Clearly out of hand!"

"I don't think you're gay."

"You're just saying that to pacify me!" He accused sharply.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"No, John, I'll believe whatever you want me to believe. It's all fine. I just think it's not on that you were so harsh with Amal just now. He really looks up to you," She admonished.

Alright. He did feel a twinge of guilt at that.

"I'm saying, John, that you're one of the most kind hearted and open minded individuals I've ever had the fortune of getting to know, but right now, you're acting no better than….Harold, an utter homophobic twit," She bit out, "I really thought better of you than this. I very much recommend you make it up to him."

"God," John sighed, "You're right. I was an arse, wasn't I?"

Sarah smiled.

…

Before they headed out for the day, John caught up with Amal.

"Oh, hi, John," he greeted tentatively, sounding a bit down-trodden.

Sarah smiled over at the two with a prodding expression, and John sighed.

"Tonight. Supper? We'll get that Thai you mentioned," he offered as way of apology. Amal grinned and accepted, granting him a look of honest regard that bypassed subtlety.

He caught Diane's broad smile in his direction and from behind her Sarah nodded in approval.

Damn.

Double damn.

…

After supper, they decided to walk back, still engaged in idle chatter about the office, difficult patients and whatnot. Before he realized it, they'd arrived at 221.

"I'm not going to ask if you want me to come up."

Amal sighed at John's hesitant expression, "I mean other than having to face your impossible flat mate, I know you're really new at this. I remember what it was like when I first came out. I was one of those late bloomers, you know. Didn't actually say anything until I was twenty-four. Mum pretty much had to pry it out of me. Tooth and nail."

John frowned, "Amal, wait."

The other man laughed heartily, "Dear Lord, your expression, John!"

"Yeah but-"

"-No, its alright. I know it was a major step for you today. Asking me out in front of the office."

"Amal, please." John sighed, trying to formulate a way to explain this tactfully, "I think you may have the wrong impression."

He paused as Amal narrowed his eyes, "John, you don't need to defend it. Clearly, I like you too."

"Right. But Amal, I like you as a friend. You know. As a mate. We're mates. I felt like a prick earlier for blowing you off for lunch. I didn't ask you to supper as a date."

The man sighed, "I get it, John. No worries, no pressure. Like I said, I know you're new to this, we can take it slow. I don't want to push you into anything."

"I really don't think you're grasping what I'm trying to-"

"-No! I do!" he sighed, looking somewhat defeated, "I get it John. You just want to be friends. That's alright by me. It's fine. We'll just be friends. You don't have to say anything else."

"Oh. Well then. You're taking this better than I- er…never mind. I'm glad you understand," Inwardly, John sighed with relief. That went more smoothly than expected.

"I have an idea," Amal suddenly blurted out, "I have a friend coming into town from back home. An old ex of mine, but he's a super nice bloke. Maybe we could all get together tomorrow night, you know, as a group of mates going out for some drinks and a night on the town and you could bring Sherlock."

"Um…"

"You know, Tom's a mystery writer. Sort of made a name for himself in the genre, I'm sure he'd just love to get a chance to meet him, get to talk to a real Private Detective."

Ah well. What better way to reaffirm friendship than agree. They parted congenially, and John prepared himself to confront the man inside.

…

"So you've set us up on a double date. Considerate of you to ask if I would even be amenable beforehand," Sherlock bit out.

"It's not a date."

"No, it's not a date. it's a double date," Sherlock corrected wryly.

"You owe me, Sherlock," John retorted, combing the fringe back from his forehead, "For that stunt at Tesco's. You snagged me into this mess with Amal, and I just had to practically reject him on our door step. And I can't go without you, because that would be awkward with Amal bringing Tom and all."

"So I'm being set up."

"It's not like that."

"Go without me. Or back out. I don't really care what you do but don't involve me."

"You involved yourself by starting this all up in the first place," John scowled, "And I can't back out, or I'll just look like some kind of homophobic berk."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, assenting.

…

Actually, Sherlock was proving to be rather a good sport of it, seemingly not altogether bored for once, and even genuinely enjoying himself, much to John's unending surprise. He carried on with Tom rather successfully, and the man, in turn, was proving to be quite amiable and intelligent.

Amal pleasantly regaled a few particularly funny stories involving his past with Tom, and John noticed in his periphery Sherlock's steady gaze on him. John gave him a pointed look and the other man glanced away.

It happened again, later as he and Amal bantered over football. Sherlock mysteriously kept darting strange, indecipherable glances in John's direction.

Amal seemed to notice and grew contemplative, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock across the table. The detective matched his gaze with a pointed look of his own.

Whatever it was, this peculiar, wordless conversation they were having was baffling to John, and Tom seemed oblivious to all of it.

At last, they all agreed it was getting late, and made to part ways.

Tom and Sherlock headed outside with Amal and John trailing behind, when Amal grabbed John suddenly, pulling him aside.

"I had a really good time tonight, John."

"Yeah, me too," he replied, a bit apprehensive as Amal encroached upon his personal space, still clutching his arm.

"Tom thinks Sherlock's quite a swell bloke."

"Well yeah, I think… that Sherlock had a good time," John responded hesitantly and the other man smiled, "And uh… so did I."

"Good. I'm glad to hear you say it," Amal responded warmly, "Then if you're free tomorrow night perhaps you'd accompany for a bite after work. My treat since you went to the trouble of dragging the monster out of his lair."

"Er, yeah, I suppose that'd be fine-"

Amal pressed his lips to his own. Stunned, John stood stock still as the other man wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. For the briefest of moments in his haze of confusion, he just nearly gave in, when he felt a prickling feeling that he was being watched, and with that, John's mind fell back into focus and he tore himself away, turning to match Sherlock's piercing gaze.

Under the surface, it seemed triumph warred with acute ire. Very confusing.

Tom grinned at them, as the detective stood by his side in front of a cab. Before John could react, Amal relinquished his grasp and darted away toward the two.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes with a peculiar, hostile mien as he and Amal exchanged glances, and the slighter man looked far too pleased with himself.

John followed suit, too stunned to do anything but mechanically move forward.

Tom and Amal hopped into the cab and bid them goodnight, before shutting the door.

John frowned and wiped a hand across the back of his lips.

What the Hell had just happened?

Sherlock coldly answered his unspoken question, "Seems you've been manipulated into yet another date."

"Fuck."

"I'll say."

"He kissed me."

"Looks like he took your rejection last night rather half-heartedly."

"He kissed me," John repeated. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You don't seem overly traumatized."

"What?"

"You just nearly kissed him back."

"What!"

"You tilted your head, John."

John flushed angrily, "I was a bit shocked, is all. I did  _not_ kiss back."

Sherlock shrugged dismissively.

"Sherlock. You have to get me out of this mess."

"I don't have to do anything," the taller man snapped.

"I don't think he's going to believe me unless you tell him that the Tesco's incident was all a fraud."

"You forced me to go out on this ridiculous farce tonight, you can't manipulate me into yet another favour. Hate to remind you but, we're all squared away."

"This is not a bit alright, Sherlock. For some reason, I don't know what you're doing, but he's got this wrong impression-"

"-I really doubt its anything  _I_  am doing, John."

"You kept looking at me-"

"-Observing is not the same as looking."

"Fine, but Amal assumed otherwise and staked his claim. You practically bated him into it."

"You're making things up."

"He'll persist with this… and I really don't want to fuck this up. You have to tell him the truth. He won't believe me and I have to work with him now. He's permanent."

"You could press a sexual-harassment suit."

"Absolutely not!"

"You could find another clinic."

"No. Sherlock. You have to do this."

"I don't have to do anything," Sherlock repeated with exasperation.

He leveled a look at the other man, noting his desperate expression, and reluctantly softened, "Fine. But this is the last time, and you have to leave my experiments alone. And buy all the groceries. For one month. And get the things I put on the list. All of them."

…

Amal smiled warmly, as John entered the restaurant, yet as soon as he noted Sherlock following close behind, his eyes widened.

"Oh. You brought him too?"

"Amal, we…er," John frowned, "We need to talk."

The two sat down, sliding into the booth across from the other man.

"Alright…?"

"Er…I don't really know how to start-" John began hesitantly.

"-No. No, it's fine. I get it," Amal interjected, disappointment crossing his face, "The two of you. You're an item. I mean it's obvious. I should have picked up on it. I mean, you weren't exactly forthcoming and I know you were probably trying to keep it some kind of a secret or something, for some reason," he shrugged, shaking his head, "but it would have really been considerate of you to have just told me."

Sherlock smirked.

"No. No, no, no. That's not it at all. Please. Sherlock and I are not like that, because I'm not gay, and Sherlock is an arse and thought'd be amusing to hit on me in front of you at Tesco's," Amal nodded thoughtfully as John pressed on, "And I can't even express how sorry I am that it seemed like I was leading you on in any way, because you're a real great bloke, and we really get on well. I just hope we can still be friends. You know. If you can forgive the fact that Sherlock is an utter cretin."

Sherlock scowled. "Drag me out here, so you can impugn me. Lovely, John," he drawled.

Amal leaned back, crossing his arms across his chest and swallowed. "Okay, so this is all true?" he queried, glaring at Sherlock, "You were really just pretending. All of it. The Tesco's thing, and then all those  _looks_ , just for kicks. To get a rise out of me? Because that's a real dickhead move. I don't know if I believe you. Those looks were pretty real," he accused sharply.

John cleared his throat feeling suddenly defensive of his friend, "Actually, I think he was just trying to help me in his own, weird way, to… you know. Let you know that I wasn't available. Without me having to outright say anything. It was really, really, poorly thought out on his part."

Sherlock frowned, "I never think things out poorly, John."

"That's really messed up. I mean he pretty much inferred that you were gay, and then you denied you were in a relationship, so what was I to think?"

John frowned. This wasn't going at all well.

"So it's true then. John's not gay," Amal demanded, peering at Sherlock, and the other man shrugged dismissively.

John sighed.  _Really?_  This again?

"No, I'm not," John pressed, utterly exasperated.

Amal narrowed his eyes at sherlock with a keen, prescient expression, "But you are."

Sherlock very coolly and slowly nodded, "Yes."

John gawked at him in disbelief, "No you're not."

The detective glanced at him with a pointed look, and then back at Amal who was smirking unkindly, "Right. So my gaydar isn't totally dysfunctional, after all."

"I would say it's very much intact," Sherlock quipped, quirking a grin.

Amal leveled him with a peculiar, examining look, and raised an eyebrow before looking back at John. "Right. Well anyway, John," he paused, "I don't know what to say, I'm a bit embarrassed. I'm sorry I was so persistent."

John nodded, "No, it's fine, Amal, like I said, I just hope we can still somehow be friends."

"it's not like any of this is really your fault. So I'm not mad. Disappointed, yes. But I won't hold it against you," he granted John a tentative smile, "Well then, I guess I better head off. I'll let the server know we're not going to stay, and I guess, John," he sighed wearily, "that I'll see you at the office. We'll grab lunch or something… you know- just as friends?"

John sighed with relief, "Absolutely. I'd like that."

…

"Why did you tell him you were gay? You're not gay," John demanded as soon as they exited.

Sherlock gave him a retiring look and John folded his arms. "You said you weren't- when I asked, back at Angelo's back round when we first met."

"Really John, your memory is startlingly poor. You asked me if I had a girlfriend or a boyfriend- to which I replied 'no'; not the same thing as asking me if I was 'gay'. I can't help it if you're prone to forming presumptive conclusions without evidence."

"I just figured you didn't have any interest in anybody. I hazarded a guess that you were 'asexual' or something. You said it was all 'transport'. You said 'you were married to your work'," John defended.

"Yet another naïve assumption-"

"-So it's an open relationship," John quipped.

"No, but it was true I wasn't interested in any entanglements."

John breathed an incredulous sigh, "So this wasn't just another ploy, then? Another twist to the plot? So you actually are-"

"-Bent?" Sherlock grinned toothily.

"You're having me on! Really? I would never have thought! You actually are…?"

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look.

"Fine. You are."

"Is that a problem?"

John frowned defensively, "Well you know it's not. But you might have told me."

"I hadn't deemed it relevant to do so, and you never formally asked," he shrugged, "Besides, you said it was fine. That it was 'all fine'."

"Right then. It is fine. Whatever. You're gay and you're married to your work. Weird. But whatever. Call me for a fool! I had no idea."

"Not every homosexual feeds into your flamboyant stereotype."

John shrugged and grinned, "I don't know. It was probably a bit dense- you're not exactly the very essence of the prototypical heterosexual."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "…Really."

"Well other than the sty we live in which would definitely disqualify you from joining the QE team, you dress a bit too… dapper."

"Fallacy. I prefer tailored suits, fitted for efficiency of movement. If you want the definition of 'dapper' go call my dear brother."

"Oh, God. He's not—er… also, is he?" John asked with dawning horror.

Sherlock smirked.

"Carry on John. What other scintillating details can you draw for me?"

John shrugged, "You've got a penchant for scarves."

Sherlock frowned, "It's a scarf. Hardly a rainbow flag."

John laughed, the tension draining, "Well, it's not like it's an ascot, at least."

"You're rather inclined to your stereotypes, aren't you," Sherlock smirked.

…

Gay. Sherlock.

Sherlock is…

Seriously. No lies, straight up not straight. Not asexual nor apparently aromantic. Just gay.  _What?_

It was proving very difficult to apply the meaning of the word to what he knew of the man. The more he repeated the fact of it in his head the less he felt he was able to wholly comprehend it.

The less it seemed to all make sense. Yet, the more it seemed to make sense. Maybe.  _God, it was confusing._

For the rest of the night, John couldn't help but dwell, even as his companion studiously ignored him and typed busily away on his laptop.

"You're staring."

John flushed, "Sorry."

With a quirk of his mouth, almost smirking, Sherlock gazed over at John, "It's fine."

Truthfully, it was nearly unmanageable for John to cease his imagination as he lay sleeplessly.

Everything he'd thought he'd known of his companion, completely flipped on its head. There would be no fathomable way to see Sherlock as he had before.

Nothing would change, he tried to remind himself. Sherlock was the same man he'd been before; that he'd always been. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter.

Why would it matter?

With burning shame, John tried to suppress the jealousy he felt picturing Sherlock.

All clean, sharp lines, perfect capacity of movement. Graceful and elegant and sweeping energetically in to Kiss another man. Bedding one.

Fuck.

Diane. Diane. Diane. Think about the pretty receptionist.

Yes, that would do, just fine. Be more than enough.

…

Fortunately, at the clinic the next day, Amal and John overcame the initial expected awkwardness and slipped quickly back into easy comradery.

"You really didn't know that he was gay?" Amal asked disbelievingly.

John sighed, "Well, he was all rather vague about everything. It's not like he's ever brought a man home."

"That's because he has a 'man home' already."

John rolled his eyes at the insinuation, "He's married to his work."

"Which you're very heavily involved in."

"And that has any relevance at all, why?"

"I'm just saying, that kind of makes you a part of his work- and if you're a part of his 'work', then essentially that mean he's married to you," Amal cracked a grin, "And he doesn't cheat."

"Oh. You're very funny, aren't you, we sure you're in the right profession?" John drawled.

Diane passed by the two holding an arm full of folders.

"Hi Diane," John nodded.

"Oh hi, Dr. Watson."

"John," He corrected, smiling warmly.

"Er… here's the paperwork for the prescription log you asked me to organize…"

"Thanks, Diane," he nodded, gathering the files from her arms, "I'll get this typed in, then."

John gazed after her with a touch of wistful regret. Amal grinned teasingly, "You fancy Diane, don't you, you old cad."

"Oh. No. it's nothing. Not a big deal."

"Right."

…

Back in the break room, the two men were chatting amiably when the receptionist walked in, with a mug in hand.

"Hi, , Amal," She nodded.

"John," he corrected wearily, "hi, again."

Amal grinned slyly and cleared his throat as the woman busied herself at the microwave.

"So Diane," She looked up and Amal smiled pleasantly, "John and I were just talking about that Film Festival happening Saturday."

The receptionist's eyes lit up and she grinned, "Oh! Yes! The Bollywood Premier! That's such an exclusive event, I tried to get tickets but they were all pre-booked or ghastly expensive. Way out of budget for this little pocket book."

"Well that's great then! See, my sister won some tickets, but had to fly out of town last minute… so she gave them to me."

John furrowed his brow in confusion.

"And really, I'm more of a sports type myself, so I offered them to John here, but he was just saying he had no idea who he could go with. But since you seem like you'd really like to…" He raised a brow at John, grinning.

"Oh, no. I really couldn't accept. It's-"

"Don't be silly, John would love to take you, right John?"

"Er…well," John stammered eyeing Amal warily, "That is if you wouldn't mind going with me?"

"Oh, absolutely! Thank you so much John, that's so thoughtful!"

They exchanged mobile numbers, and Diane ducked out with a giddy expression on her face. John eyed Amal.

"Why did you do that? I thought we were going to go together."

"John, please, after all the trouble I put you through, let me make it up to you. I mean if it weren't for me, you would've already been dating her."

"Amal, that's…"

"No. Don't worry about it. You've been great. I mean with everything. You were a mentor to me and essentially the reason I got this job, and even though I was a bloody git chasing after you, you still for some reason want to be mates. Let me do this. And don't worry, I'll win more tickets you know, next year. I'm a Bollywood expert, after all!"

"Right. Okay. That's very… I mean. Really. Very good of you."

He seemed happy as they parted, but there was a touch of longing just beneath the surface, nevertheless, and John felt, just slightly, guilty.

But. He had a date with Diane. Perfect.

…

John fixed his tie looking in the small mirror on the wall of the sitting room.

"Going down to Barts to pick up some toes from Molly. Want to come?"

"Nope," John grinned, "Going out."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I… see," he replied falteringly.

"Got a date with Diane. From the office."

"Right."

"Night then!"

Something in Sherlock's expression nagged at John, and he wanted to dismiss it, yet it clung persistently ever so as he walked out of their flat.

…

"I mean really, I didn't expect it to end like that. It was so amazing," Diane breathed, "Thank you so much for taking me. Especially after all that…well that misunderstanding we had."

"Not at all," John smiled as they approached the entry to Diane's apartment complex.

"I don't suppose you might want to come up for a nip."

"Thank you. I would."

The apartment was small but tidy, and smelled like perfume and new wallpaper. He liked it. It was just like Diane. Not that she smelled of wallpaper, that is. Just that it was simple, and tidy, and well put together.

Diane came out with two beers in hand and sat down beside John, their knees just slightly touching. Setting down her bottle, she grabbed his hand in her own, looking up at him beseechingly.

"Really John, I meant what I said. I am so sorry that I fed into the gossip. Obviously you and Amal are just…well, you know. I feel like an absolute berk," she smiled warmly, "I really like you John, you're very nice. And I'm glad you asked me to go with you tonight. I had a good time."

It was the perfect opening, "I did too."

John leaned in with the intention of seizing the opportune moment when both were startled backward by the sudden ringing from John's pocket.

"Maybe you should get that," Diane suggested hesitantly.

"Damn it, Sherlock," John muttered under his breath, "It's not important."

He leaned in and tried again, yet just as their lips brushed together, it rang again.

"Damn. Damn, I'll just put it on silent."

Diane looked wary, "What if it is important? Maybe you ought to check."

The blasted thing beeped, signaling a text. Fumbling, he pulled it out of his trouser pocket and exasperatedly flipped it open.

_Need you. ASAP. –SH_

He switched it to vibrate and tossed it on the table. "Not important."

They tried once more, just barely pressing in, when the cell suddenly vibrated fiercely against the glass.

Diane sighed and John scowled, utterly chafed.

_Emergency at the Dock. I'll send coordinates. Be here in 15. –SH_

"Really, it's alright John, I understand if you have to go. Sarah sort of mentioned that you have some kind of thing with crime solving."

"I'm not really the one who does much of the 'crime solving'-"

"-No, it's fine. Go ahead and go. I understand."

John looked regretfully at the very pretty woman sitting so close beside him. This better be important. There better be at the very least one body to show for it.

"Right then. Maybe if you're free we can try again tomorrow?"

"I'd like that," she smiled kindly.

…

He rushed out of the cab and glanced around for his flat mate, spotting him across from the D.I.

"Sherlock! What? What was the emergency? What was so pressing that you had to interrupt my date?" John bit out with unsuppressed irritation.

"Oh. You're here John," he furrowed his brow, "I thought I texted you that you weren't required."

"Nope. Didn't get that text," John gritted out.

"Must've forgotten," Sherlock shrugged, "Anyway, it's all taken care of."

Lestrade frowned and backed away warily, really not wanting to get involved and went down to rejoin Donovan. He didn't blame him.

John let out a frustrated groan and glowered at the subject of his irritation. "Damn it Sherlock!" He glanced heavenward, "Why? Why do I even bother?"

Sherlock grinned in off putting manner.

"What was it, Sherlock. What was the bloody emergency. Do I even want to know?"

"Anderson was being a prat and refused to let me inspect the body. I thought you might be able to talk some sense into him, but I convinced Lestrade to do it for you instead, since you weren't here yet."

John gaped incredulously, "That's it? Are you bloody out of your gourd? You're a complete and utter git!"

"Really John, you need to be more conscientious of your priorities."

"Implying that me leaping after your every beck and call should be my priority," John huffed, "You're a real prize, aren't you."

Sherlock sniffed, "Priorities, John."

…

It was a perfectly beautiful day, and Diane and John were getting on quite well. Which was why it was beyond antagonizing to John when he spotted Sherlock strolling up to them from literally, out of the blue.

"Sherlock! What in the blazes do you think you're doing?"

"That case from last night. I need you to come see about something."

"Absolutely not."

"It's important," Sherlock frowned pointedly.

"Diane, I'm sorry about this," he turned to her, "this is my flat mate, Sherlock, and he's a bloody-minded arse."

"Er…" the woman floundered.

"It can't wait," Sherlock stated tersely, impatiently tapping his foot.

"Sherlock I'm on a date. Go find yourself someone else to assist. I'm sure Molly would be happy to."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Really of all the people you could've suggested-"

"-Sherlock! Just please," John hissed, "Go. Away."

The detective pouted almost petulantly, "But you're the one who knows best about these things."

"What kind of things are we talking about here?"

"You know…things," he scowled at Diane, "I can't say with  _her_  here. Statute of Secrecy and all."

John floundered, "Statute of-are you saying this is some kind of Government thing? How is that even—how could I possibly be needed for-"

"-No. It's just a thing. I need you to see about."

John eyed the Detective suspiciously, "Sherlock-"

"-Look, it's fine, John," Diane sighed cutting in with exasperation, "Its obviously important. Just go. I'll see my way home just fine."

…

John being irritated was an understatement. Sherlock had, yet again, dragged him on some pointless errand that could've been well handled without his presence.

Seriously, why did he always do this?

He glared down into the swirling steam from his cup as Amal entered the break room.

"Well…?" he grinned, "How did it go?"

"It didn't. I mean the film was excellent and then we headed back to hers and I was pulled away by Sherlock for some piss poor reason and it turned out he didn't even need me. Then we tried Sunday, and it was all going quite splendidly, and he does it again. It's absolutely  _maddening_."

Amal narrowed his eyes, "That man acts like he owns you and doesn't care one whit who he walks over in order to keep you. I don't know why you put up with him."

John sighed, as his memory replayed that odd, crestfallen look of Sherlock's when he'd informed him of his date.

"He's not always so bad," John defended, "I mean, he's really not much more than a child sometimes. He doesn't always realize what he's doing is wrong, and he may act to all the world like he couldn't be arsed to care, but he's… his intentions aren't… he doesn't mean to be a prick. It's just that everything else around him is immaterial to his focus."

"Yeah," Amal muttered, " _You_."

…

John snagged Diane as she walked past later that day.

"Diane, I just wanted to apologize again for this weekend. I was hoping maybe you'd consider giving it another go."

The receptionist sighed, and shifted uncomfortably, "You know John, I really like you, I do. I meant what I said. It's just that… well, I remember Sarah's stories of why you two didn't work out, and well, honestly John, I really did want to give you a fair chance, but… I can't compete with…" she waved her hand around expressively, " _that._ I hope you won't feel too unkindly toward me, but I prefer someone that's…well, I want somebody to only want me. I don't want to have to share. Besides. This whole… _chasing_  after criminals thing…it's dangerous. I'm interested in just a bit more stability. I don't want a call at four in the morning that my boyfriend is laying out in some hospital somewhere. I don't want you to take any of this in the wrong way, but I'm really not interested in giving it another go, Doctor Watson."

…

John was not at all pleased. Very much the opposite, in fact.

"You're in a  _tizzy_ ," Sherlock remarked. John wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, but resisted the temptation.

"Yes. No thanks to you, Diane called it off with me. It's 'Sarah' all over again."

"Oh please, John. I'm hardly to blame for your poor luck with women."

"I'll have you know I had no bad luck with women prior to your interference, Sherlock," John retorted, seething.

The man snorted. "Right. Prior to me, in all the vast years of your dating life, can you honestly tell me you had one, real long-term relationship? I mean something over two month's tops? Because I know you haven't"

John glowered.

"See? You don't contradict me. No, you get off with them just fine most of the time, but you obviously have some sort of impediment when it comes to building any kind of lasting foundation with women."

John sneered, "Well you're really one to talk, I don't see you with anyone, and you pick apart my failures. From what soap box do you stand on? You know I could have had something with Sarah but then you went and cock-blocked me on that, and then you went and did the same with Diane. Has nothing to do with me."

"They're just not very understanding of your priorities."

"Again! Implying that my main priority should feature you at the top of the list. Is it so wrong if I just want to have some normalcy every once in a while?"

"You don't have to come but you do anyway. You know as well as I that this is part of who you are. You're not meant to sit around festering in the humdrum conventional family fixture with wife, two and a half kids and dog. You'd grow restless and you'd start to resent them- and you know all of this already."

"Not that I obviously don't to some extent enjoy occasionally assisting you and the Yard, but really," John sighed wearily, "I'm not some automaton. Unlike you, I need the intimacy every now and again. For the sake of my sanity, if nothing else. I mean sure, maybe I don't want the good old-fashioned family unit, but it'd be nice to find a like minded partner, and my point is…I'm trying to do that, Sherlock."

"Well maybe you're not… metaphorically speaking, 'barking up the right tree'."

John exhaled and shook his head, "Fine. I give in. What do you mean exactly?"

Sherlock shrugged, "That's not something I can instruct you on- that's something you have to figure out for yourself. But what is most probable, is that you already have some sort of notion as to what it is- you're just not ready to accept it."

John narrowed his eyes, "If you're going to be obtuse and toss out cryptic implications at me, then I'm really not interested in hearing anymore."

"Suit yourself," Sherlock shrugged with disinterest.

…

With further rumination later that evening, John hit on what he was getting at and cringed, wishing to suppress the idea.

He found Sherlock draped over the divan like some kind of lackadaisical housecat.

"It's because you don't like women isn't it."

Sherlock yawned. "Absolutely unsupportable observation, John, I have the utmost respect for the gender. The best of them are exceedingly cleverer than the majority of their male counterparts. If they lacked the innate nurturing, empathetic tendencies they're inclined to out of biological imperative," he drawled, "then we'd be very likely living in a Matriarchal society."

"No, you just don't think I should be dating them," John accused.

"I think there could be a very probable reason that you're unsuccessful with them, and you just don't have the insight to realize this."

A festering, nagging thought once again resurfaced, and John frowned.

"What," Sherlock peered at the other man with a speculative gleam, "It's obvious something's occurred to you. It's tedious watching you trying to avoid mentioning it. And I know what it is anyway, so why don't you just spare us both the trouble and be forthright."

"What was the real motivation behind that whole charade at Tesco's? Something doesn't seem right about it. I can't think that you were just trying to help me put him off of me by making him think I wasn't available- you're not that selfless. And I'm beginning to think your motives went beyond simply amusing yourself with throwing me into an awkward situation- you're callous- but I doubt you seriously meant to make my life more difficult."

"Astute," Sherlock nodded appraisingly, "But you already suspect the truth."

"You think I'm interested in blokes, don't you," John muttered incredulously.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Really John, I'm not in this job because my hair smells nice, I am fairly adept at what I do", he replied acerbically.

"You thought if you threw a hint at Amal he'd take advantage of it and we'd get on, and date or something. I mean in a twisted, sick, and very bit not good way… that was almost rather a generous thing you did. Trying to play match-maker, which was funny, because the two of you seem at constant odds."

"I decided he wasn't good enough for you," Sherlock pouted, "You really can do much better… there are other men out there who-"

"-Sherlock!" John huffed, "When have you ever seen me take a man home?"

"Well you don't take any women home either."

"Don't play coy. You know what I mean."

Sherlock sighed relenting, "You may exclusively date women but you don't exclusively prefer them."

John gaped at Sherlock, 'What the hell are you talking about!"

"It's really bothersome how dense you're being about this. Kind of offensive."

"Are you really serious, or are you just taking the piss!" John exclaimed, "So I was nice to him, and he read that wrong."

"Your method of rejection was hardly very concise, nor were you particularly bothered by his interest. If anything you were flattered."

"Look, apparently, you claim to be bent-"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow (claim to be-?).

"-and I'm fine with that. My god damn sister is too, and I'm fine with that. You'd think you'd give me a little credit. Or do you have some derailed notion that a bloke might be a little shirt-lifting himself if he so much as attempts a platonic friendship with a queer? Because that would be absurd. So absurd it'd be a miracle that someone with such lauded intellect could possibly maintain such a belief."

Sherlock laughed, and so strange a sound it was, it took John aback, "That couldn't be any further from fact if it tried, John. How do you come up with this? Truly, I don't give you enough credit for your imagination."

John sighed for the umpteenth time with incredulity, and stood from his chair defensively, "Then why do you think I'm some sort of closet-case?"

"I'm not slapping a label on you John, you only do that to yourself. And no, your maintaining of platonic relationships with gays obviously does not make you gay by proxy. That would defy logic and imply that the British Psychological Society really has it wrong after all. To infer that I'd make such a retrogressive assumption in that vein is wholly unreasonable," Sherlock grinned and stood up, striding forward toward John, his voice audibly lowering, "I'm offended you think so lowly of me."

They were all but a foot away and John could practically smell the man's unique mixture of unscented detergent and the tea he'd had earlier and something spicy underlying.

For a moment, he almost felt light-headed.

John grimaced, "Why would you imply then… that I have any interest, whatsoever, in men?"

Before John could react, Sherlock closed the space between them, kissing him far too soundly for argument.

It was a surprisingly good kiss.

Holy Hell.

Suddenly John was boneless, altogether paralyzed, unable to pull back as the taller man pressed in, snaking an arm around him, holding him tightly while his other hand clutched the nape of his neck, bracing him, guiding him.

John's lips parted of their own accord and Sherlock took the advantage as an opening, his tongue invading his mouth, tasting him, owning him.

There was an odd, smallish moan, and (dear God, did he make that sound?) Sherlock pulled off just slightly and seemed to grin imperceptibly as he angled his head and John gasped as his mouth was once again full of Sherlock and God it was not even slightly clumsy. The man's eyes fluttered closed, and John's followed suit reflexively.

It was sheer grace and perfection and his tongue was like something far too wicked to be real, all silk and heat. He tasted sweet, and something a little bit tangy and salty and utterly Sherlock and John groaned.

Then there was the dawning horror as Sherlock pulled back breathlessly.

_Fuck._

Sherlock slyly smirked at John's expression, eyes gleaming.

"Pupils dilated, elevated pulse, shortening of breath, amplified subcutaneous vessels most likely due to a flood of beta-adrenoceptors suggestive of an emotional cause to the blush spreading across your face," Sherlock parsed out in one long, run-on sentence.

(What…?)

A deep flush coloured the man's own high cheekbones as he glanced down appreciatively, "I'm sure if there were a more thorough examination we might discover a parasympathetic autonomical response expanding within the confines of your trousers."

He leveled John with a look of triumph and John yelped with abject horror.

"Sherlock!"

John pushed himself away, humiliated, only for the other man to seize him, pulling him back. "-All informative physiological data here is symptomatic of attraction, John."

"Sherlock, please-" John cried, anguished. Sherlock smirked, his lips within mere centimeters of his own.

"-All this leads to conclude, John, is that it's more than evident that stimulation from a male subject has the capacity to induce within you arousal-" he grinned broadly, "-Suggesting that you harbour, perhaps a latent propensity or inclination toward homosexuality, yet you sublimate this part of you."

John punched him.

In the jaw.

It wasn't that hard, but he definitely made sure it would get the message across.

Sherlock stumbled back a bit stunned. He swiped a hand across his split lip and frowned down at the traces of blood before grinning back up at John, "I should have expected that."

"A bit not good, Sherlock!" john shouted, "Kissing me to prove a point is not on!"

Sherlock cracked his jaw, massaging it with a trace of awe, "You really pack quite a punch. Remind me to never get you really, truly angry."

John seethed, "I am. Really, truly angry."

"I didn't think the kiss was all that bad though we could try again if-"

"Sherlock!" John roared, "The  _fuck_  were you thinking?"

"I was rather thinking, you didn't quite hate kissing me. And that you've too hastily decided to not date men, when it's evident you wouldn't particularly mind engaging in sexual activity with one. It's also obvious none of this comes to any surprise to you, though you vehemently repress it. '

"Oh?" John hissed, hot with barely suppressed rage, "How do you figure."

"I think you know exactly what I'm alluding to."

What more did he have to lose. (Other than his dignity.)

"Fine, Sherlock," he exhaled, slumping back down into his chair, "I'll humour you. What are you referring to?"

"You had a liaison with Murray," Sherlock informed him.

John cringed.

Well, fuck.

He just knew everything didn't he.

"How in the name of everything Holy, could you possibly think that!"

God, that was ages ago, among many of the things John no longer wanted to think about.

Sherlock grinned, as he too, took a seat once again across from him.

"Actually, no don't tell me, I don't want to know,' John paused, and then relented, (because really he was rather curious), "Fine. You know what? I want to know. Tell me."

"Please, John, you continuously underestimate me lately, how could it not be obvious?" Sherlock sniffed, "You must've known to some extent your inclinations, yet you persistently denied yourself and focused solely on hetero-conventional coupling. Probably due to your sister's eventual revelation and you felt it was your responsibility to play normal, ever the  _good_  son. Inevitably, anything so repressed is bound to convey itself explosively outward, and when Murray expressed his interest, you couldn't resist. I mean, not that it was very serious, it had to be strictly sexual."

"How do you figure any of this," John pressed.

"Easy. On your blog he called you a 'dirty boy' which referenced your tendency toward flirtation and promiscuity."

"Yes, with  _women._ "

"When I first asked about your time in the military, specifically mentioning him, you had that tense look you have now. You get that every time you attempt to dissimulate. You're very poor at doing so. At first I couldn't be arsed to decipher what it meant. But it nagged at me, John, what could lead you to be so tight-lipped about that relationship? Clearly you didn't part on poor terms, as he was rather quite forthright and congenial in his comments to you. Was it because you associated him with the war? Or was there something else—something I wasn't seeing. Then I began to observe something peculiar about you, John. You seemed to notice men almost too appraisingly. Even when we first met at Bart's, I couldn't help but acknowledge that you-"

"-Oh dear God, Sherlock. Don't flatter yourself," John cringed.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "You weren't unresponsive when I kissed you just now!"

John blanched, "Shut. Up. I haven't had any in awhile, thanks to you. I'm just-"

Sherlock frowned, "-desperate?"

"Anyway, Sherlock! Continue to make your point," he bit out, "Obviously your bursting at the seams to do so-"

"-Fine," Sherlock snapped, "So I catalogued your responses to males that we crossed that could be perceived as statistically attractive."

John furrowed his brow.

"Lestrade, for one."

John went from deathly white back to burning red almost instantly, "That's not true."

Sherlock smirked, "Oh don't be so mishish, John, honestly. Anyway, allow me to proceed. You were very demurring about your intern bloke making eyes at you though it was painfully obvious. Instead of simply correcting him outright sought to deny it. Why? Because it hit too close to home. You loathed that it was a very real possibility that Amal had seen in you a subtle mutual response. He's not unattractive by any means. And he's acutely perceptive. Or at least his 'gaydar' is very finely honed."

John barked out an abrupt, angry laugh. "Now you're just being patently absurd. And you accuse me of going on without unsubstantiated evidence. I was not interested in Amal, I was interested in Diane."

"Absolutely. Doesn't mean you weren't a little more that flattered by Amal's interest. Even slightly curious."

"Wrong, Sherlock. We got on just fine as friends. You're grasping at straws here."

Sherlock shrugged. "Alright, I concede, you weren't attracted to Amal. Which means, that he simply instilled in you a sense of fear by association; that you'd once again recognize your own particular set of alternate inclinations," he leveled a keen glance at John, "Even if you insist I'm wrong on every account thus far, you cannot deny there were telling physiological reactions when we kissed, nor can you admit that you failed to effectively dissemble when I implied the true nature of your dalliance with your old orderly."

John raised an eyebrow, "So you inferred that without any real evidence, but you weren't sure."

"Until just now, you don't outwardly deny it –which is very confirming. A crude method of enlisting confession, but effective nonetheless; which is why it remains to be a time-honoured, valid interrogation technique."

John could hardly bear the victorious look in his friend's eyes, "Fine, I experimented back in the day, so do most folks. I'm very much attracted to only women."

"Oh, John," Sherlock groaned, "You're being tediously uncooperative. You and I both know the truth, so why don't you just admit I'm right?"

There was a tightening in John's chest, and an unnamable emotion gripped him. Furiously, he sprang up and stormed away without a backward glance.

_Unmitigated Bastard!_

He paused at the top of the stairs before entering his room, feeling exposed and weary.

Fuck it all.

John inwardly deflated.

They were walking on egg shells around each other as it was, and now Sherlock had to up the ante and make it worse.

Why did any of this even matter? Why did he have to insert himself in this as if it was any of his business?

He still felt the sting from where his knuckles had connected with the man's face.

Well, that had been a bit satisfying.

…

"You're in a mood. Worse that yesterday," Amal bit out after John nearly snapped his head off for the hundredth time that day.

"I don't mean to take it out on you, sorry."

"Want to talk?" Amal offered.

"Not really."

"Sherlock then."

"Pretty much sums it up."

John kicked the water cooler.

…

"Lestrade asked about the lip."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Told him how you're hitting me these days, and he said 'good on you'," Sherlock smirked, "Spousal abuse. Apparently he advocates for that sort of thing now."

John grimaced, "'Spousal'?"

"Fine. Domestic abuse," Sherlock corrected woundedly.

"Oh, don't put on the tear-works. It was hardly a knick."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "It was very unmannerly."

"Yes well. It was in self-defense. Getting kissed without permission, Sherlock. Could be construed as sexual-harassment."

"My apologies, fair damsel, I shall henceforth cede to your quaint sense of virtue," he drawled wryly.

John quirked a grin in response, "Honourable of you."

"I notice how you fail to apologize."

John gaped. "You deserved it!"

"Responding with violence is a rather neanderthalian way of resolving disputes. Not that it doesn't have its time and place."

He sighed, "Your face going to hold together?"

"A bit. Hurts though," Sherlock chirped, favouring his chin with a rub, "A Doctor who hits his patients. Interesting that."

"Oh, please."

"I noticed how when Amir kissed you, you didn't sock him in the face."

"He wasn't trying to prove a point."

"Yes, he was," Sherlock argued, "He was trying to prove that he set his claim on you."

"Either way, he's not a bastard like you."

"I'll have you know I was born completely within the legal binds of wedlock."

John snorted.

"I apologized to you."

"And you called me a 'damsel'."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and pouted petulantly. John rolled his eyes.

"Sorry then," he bit out, not really meaning it.

"Clearly half-hearted, but I accept."

They fell silent once again.

John thought back to several evenings before when he'd stood before the mirror. Staring into his face, into the meaning behind the lines. As if they were some kind of oracle, like palmistry, declaring the past, foretelling the future.

There were just some things he hadn't wanted to face looking at himself, and this was one of them. It brought back the pain of isolation, that fear of rejection, that he'd suffered upon reaching adolescence with that particular revelation, seeing how Harry suffered under the weight of it, and he hated that to this day, how it all still gnawed at him. He'd sorely envied his sister being the type of person to be right enough with herself in her own head for accepting it, for not giving a fuck back then, but he was never, never that person. That brave. Not in that way.

Yet, he had given in. Once or twice. Just to see. But it had never proven to fill that strange void within, and it was too damn alien. Not that it hadn't felt… clearly as right and fucking amazing as anything, just that he hadn't been able to wrap his mind around it, to grasp the idea that it could be a viable option for his life. So he'd put it aside, up on the highest shelf, out of reach, out of sight out of mind. Focused on the other side. Attempted a stab at that ever evasive normalcy.

All a big, pitiful Fuck You of a failure.

The silence grew oppressive.

And John caved.

"Look Sherlock," he sighed, "Just because I may be a small bit bisexual—sort of- does not mean I have to explore it any further."

Sherlock laid down his laptop and seemed weary as he glanced up at John, "Why."

"Why does it matter why. Why does any bit of any of this concern you? It's none of your business."

"Then why did you bring it up again."

"Because it shouldn't matter, but you're such a goddamn know-it-all and you always have to be right. So there. You know the truth of it, you forced it out of me. Are you quite satisfied?"

Sherlock frowned, considering, "You're right, it shouldn't matter, but as you seek relationships with people, you make choices that inevitably fail to pan out. Or else you choose people who can't accept your priorities and it's distracting to the work."

John shook his head, "How is any of that even the least bit correlated?"

"Unfortunately, you've wormed your way in and proven your worth as my colleague, and I…" Sherlock darted his glance away, and pulled at a loose thread on his cuff, "I've found myself becoming reliant on you. I'm not even sure if I could go back to the way it was before... You've anchored me somehow. That being said, in order to keep functioning with focus, I need my anchor to be unwavering and steadfast, which you can't be when you're unhappy. You get all unbalanced, and it's very, very…as I said before, distracting. So I recognize that you need for companionship, and I just want for you to make the accurate choice."

"That's obviously something I want as well, you know, but It doesn't help that you always cock-block me."

"Crude assertion," Sherlock drawled, "And even so, It's not purposeful. It's not my fault if your chosen paramours fail to understand your priorities."

"And you think a man would be more understanding," John responded skeptically.

"Males are statistically more prone to logic and rationality in that regard."

John grimaced, "Again. With the misogyny."

"I'm not inferring that all women lack these characteristics- I'm just saying a male partner would be more likely to understand the fact that your priorities go beyond sole focus of setting up house."

"You think all women just want to set up house then?" John mused, raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"No, there are plenty who would just as well settle, or even want for casual intimacy or independent partnership without cohabitation- or even those with romantic inclination whom would endeavor to appreciate a lifestyle sans progeny."

"Then why men?"

"Why not men?" the detective countered, "The women you insistently consider for romantic involvement-due to your incredible lack of good judgment for appropriate selection-share one common trait: they don't want to share you. They perceive me as some form of threat—competition, and persist with jealousy. Selfishness. You are, again, more statistically likely to discover a wider selection of men whom would be more affable to the idea of-"

"-What? Polyamoury?" John grinned at Sherlock's cringe, "Sherlock- I'm not interested in a partner who'd be willing to share me in that sense."

"I'm not implying that they would share you in  _that sense_ ," Sherlock gritted out.

"Most  _normal-_ "

"-Conventionally harnessed as you are-"

John exhaled with irritation, "-Fine. The romantic partners I'd be inclined toward, and hypothetically, Sherlock, of  _either gender_ …would be little likely to accept or appreciate your  _level_  of involvement in my life. You know—with the honestly unnecessary butting in on every intimate moment?"

Sherlock considered this, tapping his fingers on his knee.

"Point taken. Fine. I won't bother you when I know you're on a date," he conceded.

He didn't look very happy about it.

"Good of you, but we both know that it doesn't matter. I'm very little likely to find anyone anyway that will understand that I'd still rather spend most of my spare time chasing about the city with you than wasting away a quiet evening home snuggling in front of the telly."

Sherlock almost seemed to puff with pleasure at the declaration and just nearly smiled, "Thus accepting your predilection toward atypical habits-admitting you take solace in such a panacea. 'Chasing about the city' has rather cured you of your lingering malaise. But I understand, John, despite this, it's not enough. You maintain a need for balance—romance, intimate companionship."

"I am a normal man with normal wants and needs, Sherlock," John defended.

"Obvious!" he drawled, "But back to the main point- you still deflect to answer to why it is you only seek women, patently refusing to even consider the alternative probability there may very well be- out there- a male partner whom would prove better suited."

John sighed. Should he tell him? It wasn't as if he wouldn't deduce it all anyway, the utter twat.

"Technically…I have. Once or twice. There was this time right after Uni. This bloke, Aaron. We got on real well. Saw each other for a short bit there, might've been something maybe…" John hesitated, "Point is, it didn't work."

"Because you didn't want it to."

"Not for the reasons you think. Not because I'm chained by 'convention' or ashamed or anything-"

"-So banal as that would be. But you are a little, at any rate," Sherlock interjected, smirking.

"It was just that their came to be these expectations, and it was…uncomfortable. The idea of bedding a man and enjoying his company is different than actually carrying on a relationship with one. It's easier with women. We fall into these expected roles, and the rules are preset. With men—I don't know, Sherlock it's complicated."

"Why? You keep defending that women and men have so few differences despite scientific evidence supporting otherwise," Sherlock pressed, "So why should it be more complicated?"

"There's no precedence that assigns a way we're supposed to get on."

"So it's all about following some sort of set guidelines?" Sherlock queried looking oddly suspicious.

"Look, Sherlock. It's not really that either. It's not like I've deeply analyzed it or anything, alright? I just… it's easier," John frowned, "How do you get off questioning me about this? At the end of the day it's none of your business who I bed. And it's not like you have some repertoire of knowledge in the area. To you it's all just 'transport'. So stop pestering me about it."

"I have sustained for years, that relationships are for the most part, diversionary and irrelevant, yes, and true, they are admittedly not my area of expertise, but I still make it my responsibility to thoroughly educate myself in the whole spectrum of human nature," Sherlock defended scowling unhappily at John's assessment, "That, you can't deny, is relevant to my profession. Since I've long since classified my identity, it would be rather negligent of you to presume I've no experience. And again, extremely naïve."

"I thought you were 'married to your work," John quipped.

"It is my work. Understanding the fundamentals of functional sexuality aids my insight into crimes of passion. Which, most often, many of them prove to be. It's almost boring how often this turns out to be the case."

"Lord. You really are a robot aren't you. Some secret project of M16 or something. Or maybe you're part Vulcan," John mused, "Like Spock? Oh, Lord. Never mind. No pop-culture references for you."

Sherlock frowned, "I know what Star Trek is, but I hardly think it's a fair comparison."

John sighed, "Fine, whatever. So yeah, anyway, I gathered you wouldn't just declare yourself 'bent' to get a rise out of me. Clearly you've based it on some kind of experiment of some sort. So have you?"

"What."

"You can't base a sexual identity out of celibacy."

Sherlock frowned.

"You must've been with a bloke or two to figure that out."

Sherlock paused with strange reticence.

"Purely, out of the necessity to collect data, I have bedded a few females. It was conclusive enough," John waited and Sherlock sighed, "I deemed it… unsatisfactory. Then there was Victor Trevor. Cambridge. I was 19. His terrier attacked my ankle, and he made a fuss about it and was very… contrite. I observed he had a marked preference, gauged his interest- which was considerable but tentative, so I took the liberty of propositioning him, which proved to be all rather educational."

"But you don't date," John remarked, baffled.

"We didn't date, John, sexual congress does not a relationship make."

John snorted.

"'Sexual congress'? Do you even hear yourself when you speak?" he sighed, "At any rate, would it be wrong to assume you were…friends?"

"Of a sort. In the capacity that I am capable of maintaining."

"And… I imagine that you, er, got off with him with…some kind of regularity for a time?"

"Correct."

"And you didn't consider that… I don't know…sort of dating?"

"As I've informed you exhaustively many times, it's all transport. Unnecessary. Distracting. It was just an experiment, a pleasant one, yes, but still an experiment."

"And he understood this, did he?"

"We had an understanding- which he was quite fine with."

"It was all just drop trou and shag then, so you've never wanted for anything more?"

"Please, John. With Trevor? Of course not," Sherlock huffed.

John gaped incredulously at his friend, who seemed to nervously tug at a stray curl that had fallen over his ear.

"So you seriously haven't seen anyone since Uni?"

"As I said. Transport John. Don't you listen?"

"Yeah, you say that a lot," he retorted, "And that appeals to you does it?"

"Asceticism is practiced quite successfully in a number of elevated professions," Sherlock defended, "When one can tune out the external, the brain can be finely tuned to focus. It's proven."

"That's…ridiculous-"

"-And, you, are at the mercy of your sensory obligations, John, I made the decision not to be."

"It's biological necessity, not sensory obligation. It's human nature. And you're one of the more hedonistic men I've ever met in that sense. You may want to remain chaste for the sake of limiting distraction- I recognize that- but you can't pretend you're not susceptible to desire or you would never have performed successfully enough to recognize your sexual identity in the first place."

"Wrong. I can tune it out if I must," Sherlock smirked, "And it's also extremely inaccurate to imagine one has no sexuality if they opt to desist from acting upon it."

John sighed exhausted. (It was like running in a circle, when you're trying to get across town.)

Then, as if out of nowhere, it all made sense. John sat up with the dawning revelation, "So you admit that you are in fact capable of desire, then?"

Sherlock, for once, looked dubious as to John's motive and frowned, "Repetitious, John. I'm beginning to suspect you lack some innate sense of comprehension."

John grinned, delighted to have one-upped the master of one-upmanship.

"Then asceticism is a manufactured decoy. Like your label as a High-functioning Sociopath. Another defense mechanism you've constructed under the guise that falling prey to instinct somehow makes you vulnerable, and less functional as an objective scientist."

Sherlock almost looked angry and vulnerable suddenly.

A look that was a bit unnerving to John, whom had grown accustomed to the man's apathetic and/or manic disposition. Not a wide spectrum of displayed emotions, that.

John knew Sherlock was a consummate actor with a repertoire of many expressions, yet all were contrived, and thus: shallow, transitory.

This, on the other hand, was intensely real and raw.

"Last time I checked, you were a General Practitioner—a physician and retired army surgeon- hardly a licensed psychiatrist. So how can you pronounce any of this without substantiated proof?"

"Because I know you, Sherlock," John replied confidently.

"You imagine yourself so perceptive," Sherlock snapped, "You seek to see something in me that you wish to see. It doesn't mean that it's there."

"Sherlock! Seriously? This label… it's like my limp was—psychosomatic. On the surface, you act it out- even though you know that it's not real, maybe you even think you believe your contrivances- but you don't," John sat back in his chair, crossing his legs, "Granted, you may exhibit a trait or two under the vast umbrella of Anti-Social Personality Disorders… but it's not who or what you are. This? It's a veil—a pretense to push folks away. It's all just armour. Cold, steel, armour."

"You think so," Sherlock bitterly spat out.

John smirked, "Please. Tell me the name of the Doctor who diagnosed you. I want their number."

Sherlock scowled and John grinned triumphantly, "Hah! So you admit you had no formal diagnosis? I knew you must've pulled that off of some Psychiatry website. What'd you do—take some online test or something?"

"Regardless of any Professional opinion, how is it you convince yourself that I'm making any of this up?" Sherlock demanded.

"You pretend it's all just boredom—that compels you to do what you do. But you've chosen to solve crimes. Not commit them. It may be a way you keep yourself occupied or even a way to earn a living, but still. If you were truly a Sociopath, you wouldn't care how you filled your time- who you hurt in the process."

"Unconvincing argument thus far," Sherlock drawled.

"Sherlock- I sincerely doubt your disregard for the majority of what you deem to be 'important' laws, is borne from the notion that you'd find it 'tedious' to be caught. Or that Mycroft would eventually step in to stop you. No, if you truly were what you maintain to be, it wouldn't matter. You'd think it was fun to flout authority."

"You'd be confusing me with a psychopath, then."

"So you insist you don't have one iota of compassion for  _anyone_?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to infer ('obvious.')

John raised one in response, grinning, "Fine. Sure. But I've never seen anyone look the way you did when I walked out that night at the pool, and you thought—for just that fraction of a second, that I was Moriarty."

Sherlock blanched and visibly retreated back in his chair as if caught.

"You can pretend for the rest of the world that you are some ruthless, unfeeling, undiluted thinking  _machine_ , Sherlock, but you can't pretend you didn't- for half a moment feel something."

"What are you-"

"-I'm saying-" John laughed accusingly, "-You felt betrayed. Hurt even!"

Sherlock snorted.

"You can't deny the fact that on some level… you've managed to… in spite of yourself… grown to care about another human being."

John gazed speculatively at Sherlock's sudden flush.

"We're friends," John smiled, "You don't have friends. But you have me. And you've let me in. You don't like it, maybe, but you-"

"-No, John. No," Sherlock sighed, relenting, "I don't deny that I-"

"-What," John pushed, "That you-"

"-Yes, John. You're convenient. You've proven yourself necessary," he defended, "For the work."

John frowned, with sudden nagging doubt, "So, you say that's all it is. Like I'm some kind of… handy weapon you keep around for utilitarian purpose. If anything happened to me, or if I should leave you for some reason- which is why you sabotage all of my dates- because you're afraid I'd leave you—you'd be displeased because you'd be inconvenienced."

( _God_ , what was this ache in his chest suddenly?)

Sherlock winced, looking a bit peakish, and John felt an overwhelming moment of Doctorly concern in spite of his umbrage. The man seemed to visibly deflate.

"John," he sighed, dragging a hand through his thick, tangled locks, "I would… not be thrilled if anything… if we should be… separated. Not because you're just…  _useful_... I, rather  _you've_  become a sort of…"

The sting subsided. God, did he want to hear whatever Sherlock was going to say. He needed to hear it.

"Yeah?"

"Fine. You're right. You're very clever. Very insightful."

John leaned forward, furrowing his brow, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I can't, John. I can't let anyone close to me. Not with what I do. It's too—there's a good chance that at any moment, if I just turn my head for a second, that something—unforgivable could- and almost did happen to you."

Awash with relief, he exhaled, feeling almost winded, "I choose to put myself in that position, full well knowing the risks involved. I wouldn't still be here if I didn't think you didn't… have use for me. Or care about me. In that stubborn, stupid, ridiculous way of yours."

Sherlock's glared at the floor, looking deeply uncomfortable in his own skin.

"So we've accepted that we are in fact  _friends._ "

"I never denied that we were."

John sighed, "Is it really so bloody awful to imagine you might actually be human? Might give a bloody damn about someone other than yourself? To admit that you're capable of doing so?"

"No, it's that I would otherwise have no use for it. As I said—the rest of it? Distraction. And you, John, are a distraction on many levels."

(Again, what was that supposed to mean?)

"I wouldn't otherwise accept it, but now it's all become utterly incontrovertible. Which is my own fault and I shouldn't have let it become," he frowned, "You've managed to incorporate yourself in it all nevertheless, and now I can't be rid of you."

"But it's all secondary. I get it. I'm some kind of interloping exception," John grinned, "And we're unhealthily codependent in that respect."

Sherlock frowned in contemplation.

"'Codependent'," He muttered, seeming to latch onto this term warily, unhappily, as if it implied something he hadn't wished to traverse.

"But I do get it, Sherlock. It's nice that you recognize that you occasionally have use for me."

"You're not exactly unnecessary."

"Glad you don't take me for granted," John stated confidently, "You have to maintain focus on the job. Got it. Like you said. You're 'married to your work'. The rest is 'transport'."

Sherlock appeared suddenly apprehensive.

And it clicked. The second half of the equation. John's eyes widened with the revelation, and he nearly leapt from his seat. "…oh my God. It's more than all that."

"Stop it, John-" Sherlock hissed warningly.

"-You have been interested in someone. All of it! All of your many layers of armour; just one massive deception. And the last one? You—being 'married to your work'—because the rest is 'distraction'—this charade of pushing people away so they don't come to any danger—all another cover! Isn't it!"

"Wrong."

"No, I'm right about this."

"Your vague intuition- this stab at conjecture- would never stand up in the courts."

"I'm not stupid."

"Debatable."

"No, you have considered someone… haven't you," John needled, swelling with repletion, "I can tell. You paused when I said that 'you're married to your work'—oh, my dear God, It's just a cover over a cover. It's all just subterfuge!"

Sherlock glared petulantly, "Playing detective, really?  _Please_."

"I'm right!" John exclaimed, bracing himself down by clutching the armrests.

"John," Sherlock tried, placating, "you're just expounding on vagaries, there is absolutely no substance behind your sudden- '

"-No, Sherlock! I can tell when you're prevaricating."

"Use my own methods against me. Very well done of you," he bit out acidly, "You've caught me with my pants down. Once again."

"You're admitting that you have then."

Sherlock sighed, "For all that 99% of the population contains of utter imbeciles, I'd have to concede there may be one whom proves an exception."

"And you found someone that interests you."

Sherlock breathed, "…Exceedingly."

"Why haven't you pursued anything?"

"I considered it briefly. But…It won't work."

"Why not?"

"it's not mutual."

There was a bitter edge to his tone.

John paused. (Oh.)

"Who-"

"-Anyway, as much as I've loved this little chat of ours," Sherlock bit out abruptly, "Lestrade now requires my full attention."

Sherlock whipped out his mobile, and rapidly began texting.

Feeling rather cut off just as he'd been getting at something, John frowned.

Sherlock muttered something about 'incompetence', as he glared down at his phone.

Well.

Fine, then.

That's when it occurred to him.

(Oh.)

He grinned.

…

John took a bite out of his sandwich and Amal leveled John with a raised eyebrow, "So you're saying Sherlock fancies someone?"

"Yes. But he thinks it isn't 'mutual'. Thing is, he's not always the best judge of these things… you know for all his 'great' powers of observation."

"So…?"

"I have an idea as to who it is."

Amal sat forward with interest, "You do."

John smirked, "Tom!"

The other man raised an eyebrow.

"Obviously!" John said excitedly, "It all makes sense."

"Umm….okay," replied the other man hesitantly, "could be. Perhaps you should ask him."

"I could do so… but only if Tom is still available…or even interested. I know he's out of town, but it wouldn't matter to Sherlock. I mean, I doubt he'd be the type to need for any sort of constant contact or anything."

"Tom…er, did intimate that he wouldn't mind hooking up again…" Amal shrugged, "He'd probably be thrilled to learn of Sherlock's interest."

Well, that was affirmative.

Yet, in spite of his intentions, John wasn't altogether overly familiar with the role of 'match-maker'.

What if this worked out?

John suddenly felt a niggling reticence: Would he regret if their involvement somehow… displaced him? If instead of John, Sherlock raced across the city, solving crimes with Tom? The mystery writer would probably love it, maybe even be of better assistance. Sherlock would completely forget about John altogether…

As if they'd never met.

God. It felt like a hole had suddenly been punched through his chest, and he couldn't breathe.

Amal gazed at John warily and he quickly tamped down the thought.

(What was this? Jealousy?)

No. No, no, no, no.

(Stupid. Bad thought. Not even remotely true.)

Amal glanced at John with a concerned expression, "Are you… alright?"

Yes, Tom would be good for Sherlock, he reminded himself. The man was not an automaton after all. Just a man. Maybe this would heed in reminding him of that fact-if it worked out between the two.

"Of course! Fine. I think he and Tom could be…er, you know, good together. Maybe."

Amal frowned thoughtfully, "So you plan on… er… asking him, then?"

John smiled resolutely, "Yes."

The man smiled peculiarly, smugly.

(What was  _that_  about?)

"I'd be interested in hearing how this goes."

John nodded, "You'll be the first to know, I promise."

…

It was well past midnight and he still hadn't figure out how to broach the subject.

John sat across the room cringing at Sherlock in the kitchen as he carefully pealed back nails off of the toes Molly had lent him from Bart's Morgue.

Seriously. He made it through medical school, countless anatomical dissections, far too many roadside bombings, emergency amputations, and yet still.

(Ugh.)

Did he have to do this on the kitchen table?

Sherlock smirked up at John, "Hungry?"

"Not anymore. That's very unhygienic. We eat there."

"You do," he quipped.

Sherlock resumed the strategic plucking, and John paused to consider what he was going to say.

He phrased the question carefully, "How long ago?"

"What?"

Sherlock glanced over reading his expression.

"Oh. That. Really John? Can we speak of nothing else? We've been at this for days, it's all trivial."

"How long ago since you were interested in this…er, bloke?" John repeated.

Sherlock sighed, shrugging, "Relatively recently, historically speaking."

"Meaning…"

"In the past year."

John bolted upright from his chair victoriously, strolled into the kitchen, and dropped his closed laptop down on the table.

"Do you mind?" Sherlock frowned, annoyed, "I have carefully arranged specimens here."

John rolled his eyes and grinned, taking a seat across from Sherlock and the mouldering toes reeking of formaldehyde, "It's Tom isn't it!

Sherlock scraped a sample from under the nail and placed it on a piece of glass under his 134-cled, unresponsive.

"You know," John pressed, "Amal implied that he was interested, you might consider pursuing it."

"Seriously. Are we in Secondary? Is this a 'he likes you do you like him' bit of query? Juvenile."

"A bit," John grinned, "He does you know. Fancy you. Do you? I mean, fancy him back?"

Sherlock grimaced, adjusting the lens, "How is this important to anything?"

"Just humour me," John sighed.

"To what end?"

"Christ, Sherlock! It's not that hard of a question!"

"No, it's not," he agreed.

John stifled a groan with creeping irritation, "Then do you?"

Looking up from the microscope, Sherlock exhaled slowly and peered at John, "Not really my type."

John faltered.

"Not really your type," He repeated with a furrowed brow.

Sherlock leveled him with an expression of wry amusement, "Very good, thank you for repeating me I'd completely forgotten what I had just said."

"But you said…recently. I figured you meant-"

"Yes John, recently. Do try to keep up."

Then who could he have-

(Oh.)

_That's why Amal was so damn smug…_

Sherlock fell uncharacteristically silent and looked a bit ashen.

'Um…" John queried hesitantly, 'the… er…thing you did, the other night-that kiss-"

Sherlock barely breathed as John formulated his thought, "-You er… it was more than, you know, something to prove you were right about me."

The man remained tight-lipped.

"Did you… I mean," John gulped, "Right. Fine. How long?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Why didn't you tell me?" He whispered, leaning forward in his chair.

"'You exclusively date women'," Sherlock quoted back at him.

John squirmed with discomfort.

"And you said you were 'married to your work'."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, 'That's the fifth time you've quoted that back at me in the last few days. I'm fairly certain we had moved past that."

"Even so, you did say it," John countered.

"And I meant it. We'd just met. For all your many considerable charms, surely you couldn't think that it was love at first sight."

John frowned.

"Not that you're unattractive," Sherlock added, sighing, "I didn't know you yet."

"But then-"

"-For all I knew about you, within seconds of our first meeting, John," he continued, "the rest came to me as bit of a surprise later on. So is that sufficient for you? Or do you need an essay on it?"

"But the thing about you being married to your-"

"-Really, John, if you say that one more time I'll have to commit you to a Specialist," Sherlock sneered, "Besides it was established that we both were guilty of falsification on various fronts. So you need not restate the obvious."

"So, alright then… "John blushed, "are you, er, saying you want to date me?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Absolutely not."

He sighed at the look of confusion on John's face, "As per previously determined, though you may have some kind of amenable inclination, you are not a viably receptive candidate. I have neither the time nor wherewithal to pursue thin air."

"Right. Well… this is a lot to take in. I mean. I didn't even know you were…er,  _gay_  until a few days ago. I mean. It's fine, really, Sherlock," John expressed, "I mean yes, I'm surprised, but no, it… it doesn't…bother me that you fancy me. I'm er…flattered."

"Oh, John, desired-by-all Cock. How all should pity you," Sherlock bit out, "Not the first time you've said you were 'flattered' in the past few days."

"It has been a turn of luck for me, recently," he grinned trying for humour, "usually it's all rather the other way around."

Sherlock glowered. Alright. (Humour- no good.)

"Look. I don't know exactly what I'm supposed to say."

"You don't have to say anything. I didn't expect for it to be reciprocated. But now you've satisfied your curiosity. Good on you."

"Sherlock I-"

"No. Drop it. It doesn't matter. Delete it."

"How am I supposed to do that? I can't just delete the fact that my closest mate just told me he-"

"John. It doesn't matter. I don't care. And I don't want to pursue this further. Drop. It."

John felt a pressure knot just between his eyes and kneaded the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to, er.. go to bed. It's past 2. You should probably as well, come to bed," Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John frowned, "I mean not my bed,  _your bed_. And not with me. I mean alone. Fuck. _"_

(Fuck.)

Sherlock smirked and the headache pounded through John's skull,  _"_ I mean you should really try to get more sleep. Okay, I'm going to shut up now."

Sherlock looked far too amused.

"Don't be a prat," John bit out.

"You're flustered."

"I'm not. I'm tired. I have a migraine," John huffed, "It's been a long day."

"Mm," Sherlock answered noncommittally, picking up John's laptop.

"You can't use your own?"

"Yours is closer. Shouldn't have put it over here if you didn't want me to use it."

John sighed, ceding, "Night then."

"Observant."

He rolled his eyes, and tromped off to bed.

And as he lay there, his mind speeding at 1000 mps, his heart pumping furiously within his chest, he couldn't help but replay it all. Every second.

Every moment between them in the entirety of their association now up for reevaluation.

The lingering touches, the glances, the moments they'd sweep in, out of breath with exhilaration from a case, adrenaline pumping, tingling with excitement. There were moments where, in retrospect, without John ever really realizing it, when Sherlock would look at him with barely suppressed something, like a tightly bound string ready to pop, and John realized what that was. That hunger. That longing.

That need.

And God, did his body react to it, but at the time, he hadn't registered just what exactly he was responding to.

Inevitably his brain replaced the images of Sherlock kissing another man, with John, himself. And it was…

Utterly terrifying.

(Needless to say, he didn't sleep well.)

…

Amal looked up curiously as John took a seat across from him.

"So?"

"Yeah. It's not Tom."

Amal smirked, "Clearly."

"Not to me."

"He told you then."

John grimaced, "It was like removing glass splinter shards from the bottom of a foot, but yeah."

"A delicate operation, indeed," Amal laughed, amused.

"Basically."

"Ah. Well. I'm not going to go into the fact that I knew… that'd be tactless and inconsequential."

"Er…thanks?"

"So. What did you say?"

"Didn't have much to say.''

Amal paused considering. "Hmm. I wonder if it's occurred to you, John," He grinned, "that you feel the same way."

John gaped. "You didn't really phrase that as a question," he bit out, folding his arms across his chest defensively.

Amal sighed, "Look I get that you're not into me, but that doesn't mean-"

"-I'm not interested in dating men," John defended.

The other man continued to smirk, much to John's unending exasperation. "You don't have to go chasing tail, snogging all the available females in a 100 mile radius to convince me."

"I'm not gay."

Amal laughed heartily, "This is like that song from Avenue Q. I swear. Hilarious."

John glowered petulantly. "I'm. not. gay," he repeated.

"Dear Lord are you dense! I'm just saying… Look John, my last boyfriend was bisexual. I'm not completely blind. I hate to be the one to point it out to you, but your preoccupation with Sherlock is, well… it's more than you running about chasing down criminals. You really… genuinely…like him."

"As a friend," John corrected, "God, this is turning in to the argument I had with him about you. So what. I… might have a passing interest in…the male form as well as the female. Doesn't mean I-"

"-John, enough," Amal held up a hand, "I'm not ordering you to go pursue it. Hell knows, I don't know if it'd be healthy for anyone to try it off with that bloke. All I'm pointing out is- after I kissed you- the first thing you did was immediately search out for him. It doesn't take an idiot."

John scowled, "I don't date men. It's as simple as that."

"I don't mean to sound preachy, but forming relationships with people ought not to be about what's between their legs, or some role you think you're required to play. It's more than that. And whether you like it or not, you're already in a relationship with Sherlock. You just haven't accepted the other aspect of it, yet."

"It'd ruin it. If things changed."

"How would things change? You already care about him as he does for you- the shagging would just be an added benefit."

"Sex and Sherlock," John retorted, "Not really something I can even wrap my mind around."

Amal leveled him with a disbelieving stare, "Why not? He may be a complete git, but he's a ridiculously hot one."

"Oi!"

"See! You're jealous!"

"No, I'm not."

"You're being obnoxiously obstinate. I really have a hard time believing you. I mean, seriously how could a guy not notice? He's like a gazelle or something- all sleek limbs, and sensual movement…" Amal smirked and gazed away dreamily.

John sneered, "If you're trying to convince me with sexualized animal analogies- you're failing."

The other man chuckled warmly, "Alright, so animals are a bit of a put off, sure, but you have to admit he has gorgeous eyes… and oh! That mouth! How a man could put that to use!"

John blushed remembering the kiss, but quickly quashed down the passing image. "Dear lord I'm not hearing this."

"…And those curls you just want to run your fingers through…" Amal sighed teasingly.

"Knock it off."

"And I bet he's fierce in bed."

"Right then. Should I just inform him that while I'm not game you'd be willing to have a go?"

"I'd love to watch the two of you-"

"-That's wrong on not just a few levels!" John bit out.

"Please, you're such a prude."

"I'm completely not. I'm just. Not. interested." John grimaced, "And your sudden salacious lust for my flat mate is beyond weird. Particularly since the two of you do not get on."

"Understatement," Amal huffed, "But I'm just saying. Though utter gits are not really my cuppa, you can't deny he has a certain appeal."

"Oh?" John queried, ironically.

Amal quirked a grin, "I like them short, sweet, dumb and blonde."

John blushed hotly, "Amal-"

"-What," the man retorted playfully.

"You make me sound like some kind of bimbo. And I'm not dumb."

"I'm not arguing your intelligence, but you're rather ignorant about a lot of things. I mean it's kind of cute in a way. But a bit irritating, I mean I shadowed you obsessively in those first few weeks, remember? Do you know how long I waited before you caught on that I was interested? Well imagine how your flat mate must feel and multiply that. What's worse is that you know what you want in your heart but your brain is too slow to catch up."

"You're completely wrong."

"Am I?"

"Can we change the subject or something. I mean I appreciate your concern and all, but why are you pressing this so hard?"

"Because someone needs to wake you up, John Watson."

…

Damn Amal.

John couldn't help but reanalyze everything about Sherlock over the next few days. It was true. The man literally exuded sensuality out of every pore.

It was growing more and more impossible to deny his body's response to the other man's proximity.

And thus, it was also becoming increasingly difficult to stop from outright staring at him, and a few, horrifying, humiliating times, he swore that Sherlock caught him glancing at his mouth.

Ridiculous.

…

Somehow, in spite of it all, the two men still functioned as per usual; John was still, just John. Overly abused flat mate, grocery shopper, errand-runner, crime-scene side-kick, and house keeper (Mrs. Hudson had put her foot down quite sharply on this matter, and John had accepted the role ruefully, out of necessity- military service driven obsession with tidy organization and all that.) Really did the man have to leave everything everywhere? ('Organized clutter', Sherlock had long since explained, exasperated.) He left the 'experiments' in the refrigerator as per agreement. But seriously? Leaving everything strewn about more than usual had to be just to annoy John. (Is it so much to ask to put one's dishes into the sink- at the very least?) (Busy.) (At least do your own laundry? Pick up your own dry cleaning?) (Boring.)

All the while it was as if Sherlock had completely shut out the entire confession.

And it was driving. John. mad.

It was all he could think about as he lay in bed at night staring through the dark up at the ceiling. What was Sherlock doing? What was he thinking about?

God, and that cursed mouth. Seriously. Why couldn't he stop replaying that kiss?

…

John entered their flat after coming home from the Laundromat laying down Sherlock's freshly pressed trousers over the chair in the kitchen.

"Er… Hello!"

John glanced up at the strange greeting from the sitting room.

Across from Sherlock sat a ruggedly handsome man, with strong, straight features and a chiseled, Adonis-like physique evident through a keenly tailored navy Cavalli. He smiled congenially over at John. "You must be the famous Doctor then?"

He darted a glance at his flat mate who appeared a bit put out and John furrowed his brow in confusion, "I'm not sure 'famous' is exactly correct-"

"-I've heard so much about you! I absolutely love following your blog about Sherlock's cases— it's so good to finally meet you in person!" He exclaimed with a brilliant grin, smoothing a hand across his cropped golden hair.

John faltered, "And you are…?"

"Victor. Victor Trevor." John's eyes widened in a priceless expression and the man smirked.

"Oh-"

Sherlock frowned, "John, he's-"

"-Here for a bit of a drop by," Victor explained.

"Ah."

Something squeezed tight in John's chest.

"Come, sit down, Doctor Watson, join us!"

John complied and sat down uneasily across from the two.

"It's been ages since I've last seen my old mate, here! We went to Uni together," Victor laughed, fondly, "I suppose he never bothered to mention me."

John smiled, reticently, "Um-"

Sherlock gently cleared his throat, seeming uncharacteristically nervous, "I've-"

"-He's done so. A bit," John quipped.

Victor leaned back and laughed heartily, "Oh dear, I don't even think I want to know what he's said, by that look on your face!"

"He was informed of the relevant facts."

The man had the sheer gall to blush pleasantly. "You know…er," he gazed over at John, "My dog nearly took a chunk out of his calf, and I was like… utterly mortified… I tried to make it up to him, and then we-"

"Don't bore John with the details, Trevor. He's well aware of it."

The man faltered anxiously, "…I see."

John attempted to maintain an impassive expression.

But dear Lord, was it proving difficult.

"So he knows about-?"

"-Enough of it," Sherlock bit out, darkly.

Victor looked back over at John, "Ah, and you're…"

"-Yes. Fine. With it. It's all fine," John replied stiffly.

"Oh, Christ," Victor cringed, "I hope I-"

"-No. Victor. John and I, we're not-"

John blushed. It was literally impossible not to.

"-Oh. Oh! I mean…" Victor grinned, appearing a bit too relieved, "Good! I mean, I didn't want to make anybody uncomfortable with bringing all that up, I just assumed the two of you-"

"-We're not," Sherlock bit out tersely.

Victor grinned and sat back rubbing his chin.

"Well that was awkward of me to imply, my apologies, Gents!"

"Victor's in town from Norfolk over the next few days lecturing on biotechnical-pharmaceutical advancements. He works for a chemical research facility developing new product lines for various corporations," Sherlock explained, catching John's look of utter confusion.

"Yes, well, I couldn't help but stop in to say 'hi', while I'm in London, I mean it really has been ages. You know this man once rendered me a service, and never requested payment?"

"It was a family matter of Victor's, very trivial," Sherlock defended.

The man laughed heartily. "Well, we never really got the chance to arrange for proper remuneration," he spoke warmly, all but leering at the detective. His eyes glittered, and John repressed a grimace.

It was very much too intimate and John tried to resist squirming in his seat. He folded his arms across his chest and attempted to maintain a stoic demeanor.

He wasn't jealous. Not in the slightest. It would've been absurdly to be so. Well really, the man was unrealistically attractive. It was not that John was unhappy with himself physically, he knew his attributes and deficits just fine, thank you, and had worked them well for decades. It was just that really? Did the man have to be some kind of model walked fresh out of a Prada ad? God, what the hell could Sherlock possibly see in a plain Doctor verses some kind of Cambridge Medical Scholar with a Mr. July photospread smile?

Sherlock, ever attuned to John, warily seemed to pick up on his discomfort. Their eyes met for all but a fleeting second, and John darted his glance away.

God, how he hated when Sherlock too keenly observed him. (Seriously, couldn't he have any secrets to himself?)

Not that he had any secrets. No. There was nothing to hide. (Relax, John, breathe.)

"Anyway," Victor continued, seemingly unaffected by the palpable tension between his companions, "that brings me to my point. I'd be delighted if the two of you fine Gentlemen would accompany me to supper."

John furrowed his brow and Victor added, "Sherlock and I have much to catch up on, and it would be splendid to get acquainted with the extraordinary man he's chosen to retain company with this past year."

John breathed a reticent, assenting sigh and nodded, "That would be…fine."

Victor grinned, pleased, "Excellent!"

"Thank you for extending the uh…invite," John added with tentative courtesy.

"Not at all, John," he grinned, "I was thinking that place down by Hyde, I made us reservations, so what say we?"

Sherlock seemed to slump in his seat, and John sighed.

God, how he didn't want to go.

…

Supper was…surprisingly not too awful. Victor engaged John in rather interesting conversation. Both being in the medical profession they had admittedly, a bit in common.

Over the entirety of the situation, Sherlock seemed to grow ever more withdrawn, darting his gaze warily between the two of them.

"You know this berk didn't even take a degree?" Victor exclaimed, clapping a hand on the taller man's shoulder.

He just nearly flinched and John grinned.

"Flitted about changing majors, dabbling in a bit of this and that, can't even imagine the monetary expenditure, though I suppose he was at least on Scholarship. And then he runs off to join the circus," he laughed smoothly, "Oh, I mean, I'm sure this is a very fulfilling profession and all, Private Consulting Detective. And he did put it to good use for me some time back, but Sherlock here is a prodigy. A practical genius to shame the best of Mensa. Could've been a Nuclear Physicist the way he'd invent formulas out of thin air like some kind of magician, shamed the professors, that. And then, the prat would slag off lecture to go toss about volatile chemicals-"

"-I was making a study of alkaloids-"

"-Ah, right for that grand thesis you never turned in," he laughed, and turned to John, "Doctor Frankenstein, here, used to steal into the surgical lab at all hours of the night and frighten the bejeezus out of the Professor the next morning when he'd enter with his class- and there he'd be—all covered in blood and gore, limbs strewn about—you can only imagine the talk around campus!"

"I can imagine," John said dryly.

"Lord! I wishI shared even a fraction of that brain," he exclaimed kindly, "John! And you've seen it in action—that masterful skill for deduction- the way he can dissect a person down to the lunch they had three weeks ago is downright terrifying! All of that combined-It's a good thing for the world he didn't end up being some kind of International terrorist."

John reflected back on the shopping lists and smirked.

Sherlock glowered and Victor perceptively caught his err. "I digress," he smiled fondly, looking at the Detective, "You've really made something of it all. I'm glad."

The admiration in his tone was just a touch too blatant for John's liking.

"Well, it does admittedly astonish me that Sherlock here, has taken to an actual human being. He was such an obstinate recluse of a chap back at Uni. Utterly unpersonable. Not without his charm, mind you, but all of that was rather superficial."

Sherlock glared, "Victor-"

The man laughed once more and draped an arm affectionately around the Detective's neck. Sherlock drew stiff. "No, John, what I mean is this man here, is among the best of them. He's got a great, big heart, he just hides it to throw the rest of us off the trail."

He grinned at Sherlock, and the other man faltered warily.

John suppressed an equivalent grin in response. This bloke was rather growing on him, after all. If he wasn't so God Damn overly familiar with Sherlock, John imagined he take kindly to him.

But Dear God, was he 'overly familiar', and knowing their history…

John was loathed to admit he was maybe…

Ever so slightly jealous.

(Understatement.)

…

As the cab pulled round John made to get in, and Victor pulled Sherlock aside.

"How would it be, for old time's sake, if you were to come back with me for a bit this evening?" He propositioned, leveling Sherlock with a dark, heavy-lidded look.

A look of… promise.

Sherlock frowned and glanced at John hesitating.

"We still have a lot to catch up on, old chap. And we still have that matter to discuss about repayment for prior services. What do you say, it'd just be for a short while?" the man pressed.

He turned his gaze on John, "No worries, my dear, I'll return him good as new in a bit."

John huffed and rolled his eyes. Fine.

"Sherlock, it's…. Just go with Victor. You haven't seen each other for years," he sighed, "Don't worry, I'll tell Mrs. Hudson it's tea for one tonight."

Sherlock nearly cringed, looking for all the world like he'd counted on John extracting him from this, and that he'd somehow let him down.

Really, John wanted nothing more than to contrive of some excuse to force the other man home with him. But what reason would suffice?

No. It was fine. Sherlock was free to do as he pleased. In fact, it would be for the best if he did so. He made no claims to the man. They were friends. That was it. And John would keep it that way.

"Right," Sherlock muttered, sounding to John's ears alone, almost defeated.

Victor grinned broadly and possessively wrapped his arm around the other man, clutching him close.

Sherlock did not pull away, and John shuddered unpleasantly as he lowered himself into the cab, feeling a flare up of pain running through his leg. He cringed with it, and for a second, he thought maybe Sherlock had seen.

The ride home, alone, was tense for John. He frowned unhappily as he stared out the window at the passing buildings and cars and couples walking arm and arm.

After a while, they became just blurs of colour like a word said too many times—losing all meaning.

Fuck.

He could just picture it: their bodies twining together passionately, Sherlock tilting his head back, Victor kissing down that long throat, Sherlock arching upward, sweating, and naked, lithe and smooth and perfect, and wanting…God.

He swallowed thickly, pressing down his erection with the palm of his hand. No place worse that the back of a cab for this. And no matter what he tried, the images would not stop ghosting their way past beneath his eye lids.

Fuck.

…

Sherlock walked in at half past 1, and noted John sprawled out on the sofa, staring listlessly at the laptop resting on his belly.

"Ah, you're still up," he tried, hesitantly.

"Mm," John replied, feigning disinterest, (and probably failing miserably at it).

"John I-"

"What?" he bit out more harshly that intended. Yes, that was a real good show of calm collection.

He dared a glance up, and noted the other man seemed relatively unrumpled; fastidiously groomed as before. Relief washed through him, and he quashed it back, but it was too late. Sherlock had already caught the relaxation of his posture, the slight, ever so quiet exhalation.

"You're-" Sherlock queried, "Are you… mad?"

"That's ridiculous. Why would I be."

Sherlock frowned, and dropped onto a chair across the room with a huff. "You are."

John sighed. "I'm not the detective here," he drawled, "what makes you think so."

"You're acting petulant."

"Why would I?" John asked, furrowing his brow, "I know the two of you have… history. Why should that bother me?"

Sherlock peered at the other man speculatively, so John sat up, and set his laptop aside, "What you decide to do with whomever you chose to do so with, makes little difference to me."

"John, I-" he smirked dropping the look of concern, "When I first came in you instantly examined my person for evidence of anything unsavory. That's rather telling of your concern."

John exhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose, shaking away his exasperation, "Honestly? It doesn't matter to me, Sherlock."

"Your actions speak volumes to the contrary. For your information I didn't- I mean he attempted- but it was thwarted."

"Dear Lord. How can I convince you I don't care? Seriously, you ought to have done whatever it is you wanted to do without concern for me. Really. I. Don't. Care."

Sherlock sighed, and his frown deepened. "I did care, however," he looked pained to admit so, "I can assure you I-"

"-I don't need to be ' _assured'_ -"

"-John! Listen. I have no interest in further entanglement with Trevor. I mean, Victor is… he's not…"

John looked querulously at his friend. It was uncharacteristic of the man to stumble so ineloquently.

"…It's not that he's unattractive," John offered.

"No, but he's not the one I…" He stopped himself, and sat back up, "For all his many fine qualities, he's not the one that piques my interest. It would be meaningless. Boring and utterly insufficient."

John frowned.

"I'm not going to pursue a quick pull for the sake of transient relief," he explained, "But I'm equally disinterested in festering uselessly in anything unrequited, John."

John gazed at Sherlock despairingly.

God, how he wanted in that moment to reach out and cross the distance between them, offer some kind of comfort…

"Oh _, please_! I'm hardly some spurned maiden, cease with your pity. It's grotesque. Stop it."

John dragged a hand down his face, "I don't know what to say to you, Sherlock… This, whatever this is between the two of us-"

God, had he really said that last part out loud?

(Stupid!)

"-I can't."

God, why did Sherlock have to look so  _decimated_?

"I have accepted that fact," the man retorted wearily, resting his face in the palm of his hand.

"No. You don't understand-" John sighed.

"-Really, then why don't you extrapolate. You know. So that I… 'understand'."

"Obviously there is something…here," He confessed, "It's not as if you haven't already deduced this, it's just- I… I don't know if it's something I can do. I can't just convert years of this…way of being…of acting, into something that's amenable or even extendible enough to… allow for me to embrace this."

"Your conviction is overwhelmingly intransigent, and I wouldn't seek to change it," Sherlock drawled, getting up, "For once, John, I'm going to go and sleep for a few hours. You know, Doctor's orders and all."

…

John wanted to just fall back into his grave and hope that the sod would simply be kind enough to follow suit and bury him.

He'd done it: acknowledged their mutual attraction, and he hadn't even meant to do so, yet before he had been able to refrain, the confession had poured literally from his mouth, '…there is something…here', he had said. Out loud. To Sherlock.

John, stricken, betrayed by his own tongue, has been involuntarily forced to face that moment; as the verbalized words hung in the air, suspended for all to see. And it was too tangible, too pellucid to avoid recognizing them for the truth they bespoke. It was liberating. And it was terrifying.

There were those nights again, where the ceiling coalesced into blurs, illusory images of fantasies he'd wake with, agonizingly hard and dripping with sweat, and he'd give in, wrenching off the covers and pumping himself furiously, hating himself as he moaned his release.

He didn't want it.

Didn't want this; the wrenching ache of it, as he imagined Sherlock's beautiful face all but crumple, first pained, then crestfallen; after he'd said to the man,  _'I can't'._

The tense dissidence between them was thicker than the Berlin wall, and twice as divisive, yet somehow the magnet magnified a hundred-fold. By concordant proximity it rippled through them both, leaving John utterly breathless in its wake.

It vibrated like a plucked string, reverberating through the room, as they merely sat across from one another, each engaged in their own activities. He'd look up to see if the other man had felt it, but there would be no evident sign other than the suddenly disquieting stillness of his form.

Then, dragged out to various crime scenes, John, sucked behind by the cyclonic tempest that was Sherlock; utterly electrical, brilliant and unmerciful, would wonder at the pull of it. And Lestrade or Donovan or Dimmock would be saying something, and John would notice they would stop and look strangely at John, and he'd wonder why and look over to find Sherlock, un-self-consciously transfixed on him. As if he wasn't even aware he was doing so.

 _And Christ did that make them talk_. John bet they were placing wagers.

There were moments when he simply forgot whatever reason he'd postulated which excluded feasible possibility that he could be with this brilliant, impossible, clever, aggravating, eccentric, and sometimes nearly alien man.

The unfamiliar ache of longing gnawed at him like some kind of feasting Candiru. He hadn't felt so gutted-really ever and failed to cite one instance, one infatuation that had ever been so all possessing of mental faculty; all consuming and bitterly, wretchedly keening.

John didn't like to think he was capable of swooning, but there was really no other way to describe how captivated he was by the other man's sheer presence, which was proving to be quite humiliating. Sherlock need no more than brush past for arousal to shoot through him like a brush fire.

If Sherlock noticed, he didn't say one word.

Yet he could see the man was equally undone.

…

Sarah sighed as she noted John's distracted expression.

"John. I was asking you if you'd filled out the reports on Mrs. Lewis."

John glanced up, startled out of his reverie. "Oh. Yes. It's on my desk," he replied, "Sorry… I was, er… elsewhere."

She and Amal shared a look, and Sarah shrugged as she walked out of the break room.

"John?" Amal tried, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Amal gave him a pointed look and narrowed his eyes. "Alright, no. No, I'm not fine. I'm the complete opposite of fine."

"Need to talk?"

"Not really, no."

"Fine, if you don't want to discuss it, that's alright, but you've been a bit tetchy lately," he grinned, "I think everyone's kind of… noticed."

John sighed and dropped his head into the palms of his hands.

"What would you do if your entire world was flipped upside down—if everything you thought you knew about yourself was completely upended?"

"I'd have to take a moment to reevaluate," the man answered kindly without pause, "but as we all undergo constant evolution of self, is it really so surprising you might have prematurely formulated notions you can no longer sustain?"

John furrowed his brow and stared at Amal, "The past few days my brain has somehow completely rearranged itself."

"That sounds rather anatomically hazardous."

"I'm a complete moron."

"A bit melodramatic don't you think?" He grinned, "What did you do?"

"Realized I'm completely enamored with my flat mate."

Amal looked far too pleased.

"As they say- 'the truth will out'!"

"Stop it," John glared.

"I did say so, not that you ever listen to me. But please, John, accept my genuine sympathy—I wouldn't for all the world want to be in it for that one."

"He's a better man than you make him out to be, Amal, you don't know him at all!" John snapped defensively.

"Christ, you do have it bad."

"Fuck. Fuck, I know!"

"Instead of brooding in self-castigation, why don't you …take action?"

"Because it's too late to backtrack."

"What makes you think it's too late? You can't seriously believe every word you've ever spoken is cemented into stone."

"It was… a rather concrete rejection."

"And you changed your mind."

"I don't know…" John muttered, "I think it's possible I might have done."

Amal frowned, "You need to make sure he knows this."

"He's a bloody Goddamned detective for Christ's sake! You really think he doesn't know?"

"I don't know him obviously as well as you do, John, but I think, though he's very observant," Amal responded treading cautiously, "I also think he's a got a bit of a blind spot when it comes to you."

John exhaled disconsolately, staring past the other man.

"I pretty much remember admitting I was attracted to him, and then simultaneously shooting him down. Not really easy to say, 'oh hi, remember how I told you I can't do this thing here? Well maybe I was just blowing steam'."

"So, John, he's played his hand," Amal said quietly, "and it's your turn to make the next move. You stumbled a bit, yes, but the game's far from over."

"I can't," John huffed, folding his arms.

"The two of you are dancing around this. You especially! I mean between the two of you, you're clearly the more experienced in these matters!"

"Alright-"

"-No, John, it's not alright. What it is, is painfully disconcerting to see two grown men acting like teenagers; all this hesitant, puppy-love bull-shite is vexingly immature. Start acting your age," Amal bit out, "It's ridiculous. Man-up."

"'Vexingly immature'," John repeated, grinning.

Amal rolled his eyes, "Yes. It's extremely 'vexing', John, all this is blown entirely out of proportion and defies common-sense."

"You're…right," John sighed resolutely.

"Oh, thank Bloody Mary, he sees the Light!" Amal smirked, "I can't wait for you to just fuck and be done with it."

John winced, "Crass."

"Prude." Amal smiled warmly, "Now what say we ditch out for a bit of lunch. I'm absolutely famished."

…

John darted quick glances down at Sherlock throughout the evening, as the man sat cross-legged, putzing away on the antique clockwork contraption strewn across the floor.

There was nothing of it. No way to broach the subject.

He finished typing up their last case into his blog, and shut his laptop flipping on the telly, seeking distraction.

Sherlock sighed impatiently, "Do you really have to watch that inane crap right now?"

"I like this show," John defended.

"I can tell you what happens."

"I'd rather you not, thank you."

Sherlock huffed, "Fine, then. Can you at least fix us some tea?"

John smirked, "No."

The other man scowled, "Fine. I'll call Mrs. Hudson. I'll tell her how you're being a prat, and that she should immediately stop baking you those cakes you like."

"Tell-tale! Cold streak of vengeance you have," John remarked, "fine, I'll put on the kettle."

(What. They were good cakes.)

"Good," Sherlock smirked.

John sighed with exasperation and got up to head into the kitchen. He espied Sherlock quickly nabbing the remote and flipping off his shows, and grinned. (Seriously childish.)

He reached up and grabbed down the jar of tea bags, and just as he was turning on the burner, Sherlock came stalking in.

"Forget something?" John queried humorously.

He turned, looking startled.

"Yes."

John furrowed his brow as Sherlock strode up beside him, reaching just past pulling open a drawer. As he did so, he brushed just slightly past his hip, and John perceptibly flinched.

There was a sharp intake of breath and he looked up at John with strange, gleaming eyes.

An exotic energy crackled, igniting the space between them, and it was irresistible to do anything but grab the man. With a speed heretofore unknown he was capable, John darted out his fist and clutched the man by his shirt nearly slamming him against the counter.

He kissed him for all he was worth, and Sherlock responded immediately.

It was crashing and intoxicating. He could barely restrain himself from pushing into the man, coursing his hand through those thick, impossible curls, pulling his head down to intensify the pressure of their mouths against each other. Seeking, tasting, ravishing, thrusting outward into the hard line of his body.

It was everything he'd wanted to do and not let himself admit he wanted. All there. All real.

He could just imagine bending him over the counter and tearing down his trousers, lifting those slender, pale legs over his shoulders and taking him, knowing him, possessing him, feeling that hot tightness close around, and God, how he wanted-

'John!" Sherlock gasped out, "Stop!" He pulled himself away, face flushed, eyes glittering under lids heavy with arousal.

John audibly groaned with the separation, angry, desperate.

"Why?" John demanded rasping out, voice coarse and deep with burning, unspent lust.

"You don't really want this."

"I think I can be my own judge of that, thanks," John countered irately, stabilizing himself against the counter.

God. His head was swimming. Could a man pass out from sheer want?

"No," Sherlock breathed, chest still heaving he braced himself with one arm yet resting just at John's hip, "You don't want this."

"I'd think it's clear I feel otherwise," John retorted bitingly, aching with his trapped arousal. God he just wanted to lean in again-

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and glanced down appraisingly. "Obvious," he hissed, "But it's the 'horse', John, not the 'rider'."

John frowned, still hazy, "…What?"

"You're just responding to the stimuli, it's all physical. You're not thinking. And I don't want you for your body."

John gasped angrily. "That's a bit harsh, and I find that-" he pulled the taller man back into him once more, feeling the evidence of the man's erection pressing up against him, "-highly unlikely."

God, he was so hard, why were they still talking?

Sherlock flushed, pushing John back. "That's a manufactured reaction borne of mutual attraction, John, not-" he sighed, "-all that I want from you."

John snorted, "Do I have to court you or something? Should I set out the candles, put on some mood music? Pour you a glass of Chablis and wax whimsical on the beauty of your eyes?"

Sherlock cringed, "Christ, do you do that?"

"Is that what you need for me to convince you?"

"You mean for you to get me to bend over the counter?" Sherlock sneered, clearly reading John's immediate thoughts. As if they were written boldly across his face. Which he was sure they probably were.

Fuck. Why was the man choosing now to decide to be some paragon of quixotic virtue?

"Suddenly you need me to get down on one knee-"

"-Don't assign me with your vapid notions of romance, John."

That was it. He was psychic. He had to be. John cringed.

"I hardly need a passionate delivery of your everlasting devotion-"

"-You accused me once of being obtuse, Sherlock, and now you're being impossibly thick. I want this. I want you," John pressed, "I'm just trying to see if this fits. I need to know if I can do this. If this will work."

Sherlock scowled and stepped several feet back, "Well, I've no interest in being some willing receptacle for your experimentation! You can look elsewhere for that."

"Sherlock-"

"-I'm sure your little friend, Amal, would be more than pleased to satisfy you," he drawled acidly.

John cringed, and fell unresponsive as Sherlock turned and stormed away. John fell back and slunk against the counter.

"I'm going out!" Sherlock shouted, "Don't wait up!"

Fuck.

The ache in his chest was unparalleled, like some kind of mitochondrial infarction but even more fatal.

(Like the really bad one, where the pulmonary muscle pretty much ceases all function.)

He wondered again about that open grave and helpful soil.

…

John stormed into Amal's office and slammed the door.

"It was a no go. Completely balls up."

"We're talking about Sherlock again, I imagine," the man responded bemusedly, leaning back in his chair, "take a seat?"

John threw himself down into the chair, "We kissed and then he pulled back and basically told me to either declare my undying love or shove the fuck off."

"Christ, who would have guessed he was the sensitive type?" Amal mused.

John cringed, "I feel like I took advantage of him or something."

"Oh please, as if anything could be less than consensual where the two of you are concerned. Maybe you should try asking him out on a date?"

John frowned, "That's so not-"

"The two of you occasionally go out to supper?"

"Well, yes."

"Then suggest to him that- only make sure he understands that it's a date."

John groaned, "God! I can't believe I'm scheming up ways to woo my flat mate. This has to be the 'Twilight Zone'. It's verifiably possible, medically speaking, that I may be developing an ulcer from this."

"Well, you really put your foot in your mouth. I mean you were being cock-led and he's utterly besotted with you, you berk! You might've pacified him with a few reassurances it was more than just a bit of a quick tug for you."

"He's not really one for romancing, Amal. Can you honestly see me trying that? With him? Of all people?"

Amal breathed out an exasperated sigh, "Well, he's also obviously looking for a bit more from you than you're currently offering, and he doesn't seem very patient. I doubt he'll be willing to wait for you to figure yourself out for very much longer, so you better decide what it is, John Watson, you want from this man, or you'll irreparably destroy whatever friendship you have left."

…

"Sherlock."

"Mm," Sherlock responded distractedly.

"Sherlock. I want you to go out with me tonight."

"That sounds suspiciously like an order."

"It's an invitation," John sighed.

"Why should I."

"Because I'm asking you to."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow looking up from the clockwork thing that had now completely disassembled and cannibalized for parts.

A new smaller contraption was in the making that looked suspiciously like a tiny robot.

John stepped forward toward his flat mate, attempting to navigate through the carefully organized piles.

"As my date," he amended.

"You're standing on the pinions, you clumsy oaf. Off."

John hopped back feeling a bit derailed.

"Sherlock," John huffed, "will you?"

"No."

"Why not? What have you got going on?"

"I'm working."

"Fine. Another time?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and steadily matched John's gaze, "No."

"Why not."

"I think my reasoning should be fairly obvious."

John folded his across his chest, "You know the interest is mutual."

Sherlock paused considering, "It is."

"Yes, I'm interested in you, and you said you were in me."

"Were. Past tense."

"Ah, right. I got it. So you aren't then? Changed your mind suddenly? That whole bit in the kitchen just some farce?"

"No, I was merely pointing out your use of tense."

John nearly slapped a hand to his face, "What?"

"It was incorrect as you used it in the past form."

"So you are interested in me."

Sherlock shrugged, "Depends on your definition of the word 'interest'."

"Are you having me on? This is ridiculous!" John exclaimed, staring at the man incredulously, "Sherlock do I have to spell it out? I'd like to see where this goes."

"Is that so," Sherlock drawled disinterestedly, sorting out small gold pin screws from the gear train pile.

"That was a clock wasn't it. Oh Shite, don't tell me you knicked that off Mrs. Hudson's mantel," John groaned, recognizing the flower motif on the amputated pendulum.

"I'm borrowing it. I'll put it back together."

John blew out a breath, pulling at his restrictive shirt collar, "Why are you being so bloody damn stubborn about this. I don't see what the issue is here, I'm telling you I want to be with you. I can't make it any more transparent."

"Then allow me make this perfectly transparent to you, John. I am not interested in dating you."

John seethed.

"Thought this out have you? Tell John you want him but he can't have you. Fine. Got it. Makes a lot of sense."

John turned to leave, utterly irate.

"Wait."

John sighed, and look back at the other man, gazing up from the floor at him with a leveling frown, "I'm not going to date you-"

"-Yes you already said that, thanks, want to drive it in a bit further?"

"Let me finish. I'm not going to date you because this, this dating men? John? It's not something you do… or rather, it's not something you're used to. And me? I don't date, period. At all. And, even if we were to try, it wouldn't work."

John knelt to the floor, and crossed his legs in front of him, "Alright, you have my attention. Why? Why wouldn't it work, Sherlock?"

"Primarily, because I refuse to be your trial  _boyfriend_ ," He bit out, as if the word were distasteful in his mouth, 'I can't be some experiment."

John listened patiently.

"Secondly, John… I can't afford to lose our friendship if this turns out to be some unmitigated disaster, which it would inevitably, because I'm… not an easy person. We'd fight, and I'd take you for granted, ignore you, insult you, and even use you, and you'd resent me for it among other things eventually when the initial infatuation wanes."

"All of that is just you, being hyper-focused and self-involved. It's nothing I don't already know and accept about you."

"Then while we're bearing our souls, so to speak, pray tell, John, what exactly is it you see in me?"

"Are you fishing for compliments?" John grinned, "You want to know what I see, Sherlock?"

The man frowned, warily.

Right. For all his arrogance, he was spectacularly insecure.

"Sherlock," John exhaled, "I see an impossibly brilliant, callous and clever man. You're quick to observe, but careful to conjecture; calculatingly, brutally unbiased in doing so, much to my never ending dismay because I can't keep a damned secret from you. You know everything I'm thinking and everything I've ever done-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "-If it's any consolation, you're hardly the only one this applies to-"

"-There are also times when you're utterly manic, and you drive me up the very same bloody wall you shoot holes in when you're bored," John continued, steam rolling over Sherlock's interjection, "You leave body parts on the kitchen table. I've found human teeth in the coffee mugs. You're a complete slob, you can barely feed yourself or do any of the shopping or errands, and half the time I think I'm completely out of my mind for putting up with you. Most of the time, you're one of the most ridiculously annoying, obstinate, mercurial and childlike men I've ever met, Sherlock."

"Do you read off a list of faults to all your potential paramours? Unique way of convincing your ardour, that," Sherlock drawled, "You must have some peculiar fetish for the defective."

"Yes, Sherlock you're extremely flawed. But you're not defective. I'm just stating that sometimes, its really hard to understand why I-"

"-Stick around?"

"You're like a bad stain and I can't get you out-"

Sherlock smirked, "-A rather passionate delivery of one of the most dIsparaging essays on my person I've ever had the privilege of hearing."

John smiled softly, "I'm saying, you're the stain I don't want to get out. In spite of it all."

"No? I think I have a tide stick laying around somewhere if you'd care to use it," Sherlock retorted with an ironic grin.

"You may be difficult, but for every bit of you that's challenging, you more than make up for it in nearly every single way otherwise. And when you want to be? You can be kind. And even endearing and your loyalty is unshakable; you have an innate sense of good and generosity that's…breathtaking."

John flushed. It was a bit off having to be so candid toward a man who could just as easily take all of his open, honest sentiment and toss it carelessly back in his face.

"You think I'm…good," Sherlock frowned disbelieving, repeating John as if trying to convince himself.

"Yes. You're good."

The man seemed to soften with John's conviction. Right then. No time like the present to bare all.

"And," he sighed, "Sherlock, you have to know you're probably one of the most strange, sensual, beautiful men I've ever seen. I'm not sure you're even real sometimes. I don't think I was ever really even alive before you; it's like I was only half breathing before and now? It's like I've been resuscitated. I'm some kind of enhanced version of what I was."

"You're no more than you've always been, John," Sherlock whispered, "I've always known you were better than the rest of the lot."

Something fluttered within, and John pressed on.

"The truth of it all is," he confessed, "you're the most amazing, brilliant, incredible man I've ever met, and half the time I can barely think when you're in a room, and when you're not in a room, you're all I think about."

The clock clutter was all but abandoned as Sherlock flushed, gazing across at him.

"All of that is well and good, John, but what we have now? I'm not sure friendship is even a sufficient or worthy enough term to convey how important you've become. And that will always be my first and foremost priority. I couldn't…" he cringed, "If this were to happen and fail? I would not handle it at all well if you were to leave me- I would not be able to hold myself accountable for…possible consequent actions."

"I don't know how to convince you that you're wrong about this. I can't imagine one reason, one conceivable scenario in which I'd willingly leave you— look at us. I've been fighting tooth and nail for ages to convince people we're not together- the only thing that would change is that we actually would be. And I can't keep denying that I want this. But I can accept, for the reasons you shared, that you don't want to even try, fine, but I can't understand it. You've never backed down from anything before. Why now?"

"I…I can't."

He stood up and John followed suit, standing before each other as if they were about to engage in battle.

It felt a bit like battle.

"You repeat my words of rejection back to me. I grasp the irony. So we'll just continue on as friends, fine. You focus on your work, I'll continue to see other people," John retorted bitterly.

Sherlock looked miserable.

"Please. Don't John."

"You won't let us try, but you hate the idea of me moving on, don't you. You can't fathom me having anyone else, or for that matter, and more to the point, anyone else having me. Because you're utterly, rottenly selfish and self-absorbed."

Sherlock seemed lost, "John I-"

"No Sherlock, you're right. I was stupid to think this would be a good idea. We'll carry on as always, forget this ever happened. I'm not going to leave you for the forseeable future, but no definite plans, alright? I may hopefully, one day, meet someone who will be willing to give it a try."

"I can't-" Sherlock breathed, "God, John. Please, please don't."

The man pressed a hand over his eyes looking wretched. When did he use the word 'please'?

"'Can't, don't' what?"

Sherlock dropped his hand and leveled John with piercing, brutally variegated want.

"Can't let you leave me, don't try."

And they were kissing.

God, for just those few seconds, it was as if the world had suddenly stopped spinning on its axis, completely shut down, nothing mattered, nothing-

"-Sherlock!" a voice bellowed.

Both men tore apart instantly as the door to 221 crashed open and feet pounded up the steps. By the time the interloper bolted through into their flat, they were literally across the room from each other.

"Sherlock-" Dimmock all but panted, "-where the hell have you been and have you  _seen_ the news? We've an emergency on our hands! Lestrade tried to get a hold of you ages ago!"

John's face, still flushed, still breathing too hard, utterly wrecked from being torn from that kiss, was suddenly gobsmacked.

What the hell was Dimmock on about? His phone was just in his-

"-I…that's not-" Sherlock sputtered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his mobile.

"-Yeah and we tried to call you too, Doctor-"

"-Wait, what?" John flipped open his phone, "No missed calls-"

"-No service bars," Sherlock mused paling, "John you-"

"-None," John confirmed, confusion knitting his brow, "And I have Xinix, not the same provider as you-"

"-Clever," Sherlock mumbled.

Dimmock looked at the two men with exasperation, "Moriarty he-"

"-Escaped from Belmarsh." Sherlock completed.

John started, becoming very still and very pale, "But that's the highest security-"

"-Not if you've got-"

"-Minions and Secret Bank Accounts floating across the globe, what the hell happened-"

"-What happened, Dimmock, you said something was on the news."

"Bombing in Soho, it happened-"

"-Less than 30 minutes ago. That's why he cut off our service. As I said clever-"

"-Sherlock, this is hardly a situation to be praising-"

"-I'm not-"

"-Shut it! Both of you! I'm getting a bleeding migraine having to listen to the two of you carry on!" The D.I. bit out, "Oi. Do you even hear yourselves? Like some kind of yammering old marrieds'."

Sherlock grinned.

"Car downstairs for you both, and we're sending someone over to escort your landlady off the premises. There's a good likelihood he has agents on the way."

…

At Scotland Yard, John gazed in horror at the telly at the news broadcast of Berwick taped off and swarming with officers where a bomb had exploded right in the middle of a festival, 2 dead, 14 critical, 23 injured in the blast.

All reports indicated mass confusion as to the identity of the party responsible as well as the motive.

"A gesture of greeting," Sherlock mused looking far too chipper for John's taste. He could practically smell the other man's enthusiasm.

"A big Fuck you, if you ask me," Donovan added.

"No one asked you," Sherlock muttered.

"And Moriarty plays into this how?" John queried, looking up at Lestrade.

"We were just informed, not half an hour ago of the breach up at Thamesmeade . There was some kind of insider," he scowled, "The M16 network firewall at the facility was hacked and the Security system including all alarms and cameras shut down for over 2 minutes."

"So he has friends in high places," Sherlock smirked.

John imagined a very irate at this very second Mycroft and shuddered inwardly.

"There was a Guard, Robert Hascal, reported MIA seconds after the incident. Scoured his files: inscrutable, cleanly falsified documents. No identity on him, yet," Lestrade explained.

"What else." Sherlock demanded.

"We discovered this at the site," Lestrade handed over a plastic sealed bag holding a jump drive to the Detective.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"I uploaded the files."

"Show me."

The D.I. pulled up the images onto his computer as the two men looked on.

Shit.

Photographs of 221 taken from various angles. Multiples of John on various days to and from the Clinic as well as of Sherlock at various locations around London.

The following image read: CORDIALLY INVITED!

"I tried to warn the two of you immediately and failed to get through. Message Operator reported your lines were cut, so I sent out Dimmock to retrieve you. Checked the system for your networks," Lestrade informed, "And took the liberty of switching your service back on about 5 minutes before you got here and placed tracking on it, just in case you should be contacted. Also, take a look at this."

The last file was a PDF with a jumble of numbers and letters:

("):/B2M?T6N8C3E5L3C5QA?E?OEPRHSKBO(X2)PLEOnosidewaysA:

"We first thought he was citing some sort of numerically coded literary passage, but then our Decrypter System determined the first part are-"

"-Coordinates-" Sherlock interjected, "Too obvious, meant to make you over think it."

"The 'T' and 'Q' threw us off at first. We're still unsure of that."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, frowning.

"The second part is also a scramble. This we concluded to read: BOMB AT TEN O CLOCK SHARP(X2), which means there will be two sites for the next explosion," Lestrade explained, "-GLS pulled up 7 locations possible in London and we've dispatched several squads to each site. We're missing exacting pin points though so it's all too vague. We scoped the areas and found nothing remotely suspicious thus far. With such broad regions, with thousands of people, it's too soon to evacuate and alert the media. They're already in hysterics over in Westminster. We're not sure why Soho was targeted, but it could be just a highly populated area chosen at random to create the most havoc. Get the best reaction."

"But there are key alphanumerics and symbols dropped from the combinations that make up the warning and time," Sherlock accused, "We're left with: 2?683535?."

"And what does 'nosidewaysA:' mean?" John added, "or 'PLEO'?"

"We figured 'nosidewaysA:' to reaffirm 'PLEO'. As in, 'no sideways about it.' Another words, "Don't disregard the previous comment'."

Sherlock groaned, "Lame."

"'PLEO' is short for 'Pleonastic'," Lestrade continued to explain, ignoring Sherlock's eye-rolling, "He's implying that he's given 'too many words necessary for clear expression', which lead us to the fact that the other numbers and symbols were unworthy of being deciphered. Irrelevant leftovers."

"Nothing is irrelevant!" Sherlock glared at the D.I., "Are the whole of you lot complete imbeciles?"

"Hey!-" Lestrade bit out defensively.

John frowned, "Sherlock, really-"

"-Why is this familiar. Ah! Quick, Lestrade your phone! Old model PDA with keyboard!"

Sherlock scrawled out: 2?683535? = WNYIETETNN

"So it's a code based on a PDA phone keyboard…" The D.I. mused.

"The '(X2)' is not how many sites there are. It's telling us how to decode your 'leftovers'," Sherlock instructed, "Rearrange the letters by two."

Lestrade furrowed his brow and counted over the letters. T.W.E.N.T.Y.N-"

"29," Sherlock informed, "See?"

He jotted out the rest: 523?56?8?3 = TWENTYNINE

"29 of what?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes.

"Letters in an alphabet!"

"A stab at thin air, how do you get-"

Sherlock ignored Lestrade and began to pace back and forth across the office listing off languages, "-Turkish Vietnamese, Arabic, Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, Nigerian and Lycian."

God, the man was like Wikipedia on steroids.

"Which one is it and why use English to infer a foreign alphabet?" John inquired crossing his arms, utterly baffled.

Sherlock grinned brilliantly at John, and his heart nearly stopped. "Genius! Perfect question!"

Lestrade frowned, "What-"

"-Which and why…" Sherlock mused, "You're like a bloody filter for my brain, John, absolutely perfect in every way!"

John flushed and the silver haired D.I. eyed him quizzically.

Damn.

Yard wagers on the status of their relationship were bound to be verified by the fond look Sherlock was granting him.

John's lips still tingled with the kiss from earlier.

"Forward it to my phone," Sherlock sharply demanded, "Cold leads. All of them. Something crucial is missing."

Using his Iphone he took a quick snapshot of Lestrade's mobile keyboard.

…

John darted after the Detective as he stalked out of Scotland Yard and into a nearby Starbucks.

John sat across from the other man, trembling inwardly with exhilaration. Of course, outwardly he was stiller than he'd ever been. The opposite manifestation of PTSD, yet another of his many dissentions from normalcy.

(God, what had been interrupted.)

The night had, in a manner of an hour, flipped completely on its head. In fact, so many things of recent, had been flipped on their various aforementioned heads, he wondered if they all hadn't suffered some massively severe brain trauma.

To think, if none of this had happened, where they might be this very second. So frustrating.

He stared at his companion wistfully, watching him busily scrawling out theories, idly wondering if the man so immensely focused, had even given a moments thought to reflecting back, as he was.

Sherlock bolted up suddenly with a transcendent expression, jarring John out of his thoughts.

"Of course! Obvious! Pleo is . Lions! Scandinavia! All the flags have lions! 29 numbers in the alphabet excludes Finnish, leaving us with either Danish, Swedish or Norwegian- which all contain diametrical alphabets!" Sherlock looked eerily reminiscent of Doctor Frankenstein. (Couldn't blame Victor for that analogy…) Totally a 'Eureka' moment if ever there was one.

"'nosidewaysA:'," he continued, "refers to 'umlauts' which look like a parallel colon, so we can also exclude Swedish. That leaves Danish or Norwegian, since the 'A' looks smashed together with an 'E'."

"Okay then-"

"'TQ' according to the mobile keyboard code, stands for '51'. Meaning 51 are the first numbers of the coordinates. Narrowing us down to this single, generic location. John, pull up your GPS. Put this in and tell me what you get."

51°29′18″N 0°11′37″W / 51.48833°N 0.19361°W / 51.48833 = Old Brompton, Kensington.

"South side. Pull up your browser. Get up GoogleMap and zoom in to street level. Name off all restaurants, stores, offices, etcetera."

"Gallops, Western Union, Dajani, Only Roses, Café Nero, Madsen-"

"-Madsen. Danish restaurant," Sherlock grinned, "Quick John, call a cab!"

…

On the way toward Kensington, Sherlock fidgeted anxiously beside him, staring out the window when John suddenly felt the vibration of a text from the phone in his coat.

Sherlock darted his glance over, as John flipped open the screen.

"Sherlock. Look."

_Well solved, my dear. Having fun, yet? –JM_

_(IM forwarded: 20:03)_

"He's sending this from a computer," John mused.

_Don't worry. Your friends can't see my IP nor my forward texts, good on me for being nice to the blokes at the mobile kiosk. –JM_

_(IM forwarded: 20:03)_

One minute later:

_HINT: Red tie. –JM_

_(IM forwarded: 20:04)_

_Tell your friends and the fun is over now. But If you can find my little hyperbaric friend before 10, I'll call it quits, and let you invite them to disable._   _–JM_

_(IM forwarded: 20:04)_

Shit.

…

The restaurant was swarming with Friday night business. John glanced around warily, as if expecting to see Moriarty seated as a casual diner.

Sherlock leaned over and spoke into John's ear over the noisy din, "There. Man to the left of morbidly obese lady. Red tie."

John looked over inconspicuously in the direction Sherlock aimed him at. Ah. Not Moriarty. Some frail elderly chap with a toupee.

Before John could stop him, his companion was walking in a beeline toward the man, bumping into his large companion's chair.

"Oi!" She yelped, startled.

"Pardon me Ma'am!" Sherlock dropped to his knees and crawled under the table to John's horror. The woman cried out, alarmed. "Dropped my cufflink," he explained.

The couple at the nearby table frowned with disdain at the commotion and Sherlock popped back out looking altogether pleased. "Found it."

The Detective nearly pranced back over to John, snagging his arm dragging him.

Before they fled out the door John gave the offended Maître d an apologetic shrug.

"Look at this, John!" Sherlock brandished a post-it.

"God. It's like a scavenger hunt! Seriously? Another code?" John frowned, "You realize it's closing on 9:25? We're running out of time. I know he'll find out if we contact Lestrade from our phones but can't we call from another?"

As if he'd been heard, his question was answered.

_Watching you. :D –M_

_(IM forwarded: 20:25)_

John looked up at the CCTVs.

_Think broader, John. –JM_

_(IM forwarded: 20:26)_

How?

Were they being followed? He darted around a glance, and Sherlock glared.

"No time, John, look at this." Sherlock handed him the note.

T^2

"'T squared'?"

Sherlock frowned appearing stumped.

"Is it a code for another code? Let me pull up the pic of Lestrade's phone," He studied the keyboard, "No. Not it."

T squared. T square. As in the measuring stick?

(Oh.)

"It's a pun!" John exclaimed, his heart beating out of his chest, "Trafalgar Square!"

Sherlock grinned, "Brilliant John, once again!"

…

"I found it!" Sherlock shouted tromping through the water in the fountain, "Here!"

He pulled out a water logged notebook and flipped open the cover. Empty pages stuck together, but on the inside of the back was a bleeding, black marker scribble:

Penelope L.

CelestialX Tachycardia's Eudicot

Location: (B's Verb within and after A's ref to a Happy Event, location thereof's nearest $ inst.)

Sherlock frowned.

"Penny Lane!" John shouted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Beatle's reference. For the street."

"Ah, but-"

"-Stars times increased pulse rate equals…flower varietal?"

"Don't be literal. Star Crossed Lovers. Shakespeare. John, pull up GoogleMap again. Look up theatres on or near Penny Lane."

"Bearcat, Turk's, Rose-"

"'A rose by any other name...' Quaint. What are the nearest banks?"

"Shit. Doesn't matter, it's 12 miles away. We'll never make it!"

"It's something else then," Sherlock huffed, "He doesn't mean for us to be late. I'm missing something. What am I missing. What's the last part mean."

As Sherlock's rapid-fire synapses darted cross a spectrum of conjectures John grew tense with anxiety.

_Shakespeare, theatres, plays, Rose, Penny Lane, the Beatle's..._

"The Rose Theatre. Verb: what do they do? Put on plays. John! Look up the song lyrics."

"Ah, here it is. B's Verb "play" within the song and the previous line should be the event."

_A pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray_

_And though she feels as if she's in a play_

"Selling poppies. Remembrance Day Parade."

"But that takes place here!" John argued.

"Right, then the nearest financial institution is the Royal Bank of Scotland."

John felt the vibrations in his pocket of another text and frowned.

_The clock is ticking, lads. Oh, and because I'm feeling generous, I'll give you a bit more fun: (B's trope, once done by A; this creator's 10_ _th_ _book's subject matter.) You can appreciate the irony later._

– _JM_

_(IM forwarded: 20:43)_

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It secondary."

"But shouldn't we figure out what the hell he's talking about?"

"No time."

John frowned.

It felt like they were being bated into a trap.

…

It was 9:56 when they arrived in the front of the towering white stone Financial Institution between Leicester and Trafalgar.

Sherlock glanced around frantically, and John tried to spot anyone suspicious.

Sherlock's phone was the one to vibrate this time.

_I'm John Wilson Croker, I do as I please; instead of an ice house I give you a frieze, OR am I inside what's beside me, in which was placed a wager of 180 days. (I'm in a suitcase placed just within the front door. Can you beat the clock?) –JM_

_(IM forwarded: 20:57)_

"Ah. The Athenaeum Club is the first one and then Jules Verne's novel hints at the Reform Club."

"Which one is it?"

"You check the first, I'll check the second."

The two split, John darting toward Anthaeum, and Sherlock toward Reform.

Sherlock threw open the front door to find the suitcase, feeling awash with relief, just about to call down the block to John, when he received yet another text:

_BTW, my dear, the answer to the question before was: 1.) Trope: Pyramus and Thisbe. Funfact: performed by the Beatles in 1664. 2.) Ovid. 3.)10_ _th_ _Book is Metamorphoses. Get it, Sherlock? –JM_

_(IM forwarded: 20:59:49-)_

It took 4 seconds to read the text.

What?

_(:54-)_

Oh.

_(:55-)_

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror. _There were two suitcases._

_(:56-)_

4.) Subject Matter of Ovid's Book 10:  _Doomed Love._

His would not be the one set to go off.  _The fucking bastard._

_(:57-)_

"JOHN! STOP!-"

(:58-)

John looked around in the direction of Sherlock's shouted warning-

(:59-)

-but not soon enough.

(:00)

…

…

…

The first thought he had was of the weird sensation of deafeningly loud buzzing in which everything external was muffled; like being stuffed inside of a tube packed with cotton.

The second thought was more of an awareness of sensation rather than an actual moment of coherence. Something shaking gripped his hand, and it was too tight, and too warm. He wanted to pull away, in that moment, but was unable.

Which was rather alarming. So with that being his third thought he cracked open his eyes and instantly regretted doing so, as blinding light poured through and an overwhelming array of foreign, blurred images crowded within.

He felt his hand released.

"John!" Cried a startled, deep and tremulous voice.

His fourth thought moment of awareness was that everything suddenly hurt.

Particularly his head.

He clenched shut his eyes once again.

Orders were shouted, and footsteps padded in around him like thunder.

It was too much.

Then all was black.

…

When he finally awoke from the paralysis of his pain management cocktail of Demerol and Neurontin, the first epiphany he had was, 'Back at the hospital.'

Concussion. Gash 2 inches above left ear requiring 12 stitches. 1 broken rib, 2 fractured. 1 broken collar bone, reset. Wrist and Ankle sprained.

Abrasions, contusions, and general swelling not withstanding, John decided he looked like he'd seen the worse end of a bad job. Maybe he shouldn't have looked into that hand mirror he'd requested from the night nurse.

This was the second time he'd awoken in an ICU in the past two years. Both times, utterly baffled to how he'd ended up there.

Sherlock had patiently and with clinical, cold precision, informed him of the details after his debriefing with Donovan and Lestrade.

It could have been worse. Far worse, if Sherlock hadn't yelled out. If he'd opened that door—

Sherlock looked absolutely miserable, pale, dark rings under bloodshot eyes as if he hadn't slept in… well what had it been, nearly 72 hours? But it was more than that. As if he'd been waging some inner war and lost.

He'd finally been released and the two sat uncomfortably beside each other in the cab home.

John's head throbbed despite the oxicodone. And his thoughts were just as blurry.

God, was he tired suddenly.

Why was Sherlock so distant? So physically removed?

He remembered that shaking hand holding his own as he drifted in and out of consciousness in his coma. How he ached to have it once more. The man couldn't be sitting further away if he tried. As if repelled from John, and it hurt.

They arrived at 221 and Sherlock helped him in, with Mrs. Hudson supporting him from the other side. She fussed over him for a bit until he was settled in, reprimanding Sherlock for letting harm befall him.

He was not entirely grateful for this, as he had wheedling doubts as to whether this would simply reaffirm whatever notion his friend had been so pensively contemplating.

Awhile later they were alone once more. He couldn't help but notice Sherlock appearing strangely cool, as if trying to refrain from looking at him

"So, you're saying there were two suitcases," John confirmed once more, trying to get the story straight in his head.

"Yes."

"It was a trap for me then."

"No, it was a trap for me."

John frowned, "I don't-"

"-I was an idiot," Sherlock muttered. He leaned back in his chair, clenching shut his eyes. "He'd warned me he would. And he did. And it's. My fault."

' _I'll burn the heart out of you.'_

Oh. (Well, fuck.)

"It won't happen again, John. I will catch him-"

"-Sherlock-"

"-I will kill him. Tear him limb from limb. Slowly-"

"-Sherlock-" John tried again.

"-No. No, John. I can't do this. He will keep coming after you until-"

"-Sherlock-"

"-This is it. Done. Shouldn't have been in the first place. The end, John. We can't do this. I can't. Never should have thought. Have been so—Stupid. Wrong…selfish to think I- You're a distraction I can ill afford."

A sharp agony pierced through him, and he shuddered coldly against it, "Sherlock-"

Don't, don't.

(Fuck.)

Don't, God, don't.

But Lord was he enfeebled by the narcotic, he could barely utter his resistance.

The other man leveled him with a resolute, tense look, "There is no feasible way for this. It can't happen. It was proven so."

"I told you, I know the risks, please," John begged without pride, without dignity, utterly uselessly helpless. "Don't do this," he rasped out in just the barest form of a whisper, such that, he couldn't be sure it'd even been articulated.

His gut wrenched inwardly, violently churning. How could this, how could he—

John could barely utter another protest, as his throat was thick with an unnamable, indescribable fear.

For the third time, in the past few weeks, John wondered again if that grave was still available, and if it would be amenable at this point to his lunging into it.

It was so close. They had been just so—

He had been so close. To finally being.

Something like happy.

And that, in this very moment had been torn from him, and was a pain like nothing he'd ever felt.

…


	2. Chapter 2

A World Upended (Part 2)

Author: Sfumatosoup

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Genre: Angst/Romance/Adventure/Humour

Disclaimer: I do not own. All Gatiss and Moffat and Doyle. No plan to profit.

Rating: Mature

Warning: Spoilers for all BBC eps in season 1 as well as for canon FINA, SIGN and EMPT (eventually). All main characters and even one or two OC's. Not brit-picked and self-beta'd so if you see errors or things that need to be changed please let me know.

Summary: PART 2: (In which there is alcohol abuse and abundant texting.) In the wake of the bombing, Sherlock refuses to pursue a relationship with John. Things get complex when John weds Mary. Jealousy rears its ugly head, and then of course, Sherlock and Moriarty face off!

A/N: Thanks all for your awesome, helpful, motivating comments! I'm working on part 3, the conclusion, as we speak! Thanks for sticking it out with me!

…_____......

It had taken weeks before John was ready to resume work at the clinic. Everyone he'd ever known had dropped by to wish him well or express their hopes he get better soon or drop him a casserole. Or two. Or three.

Very little did they realize it was hardly his health he was concerned of.

It was like his heart had been torn from his chest and thrust across the room only to be crushed by Sisyphus' enormous boulder.

Sherlock was absolutely resistant to persuasion and utterly impervious; there was nothing John could say, so steadfast was the other man in his decision. And John couldn't keep fighting it.

The man wasn't cruel or unkind or even cold. But he was distant. Removed.

John ached with longing. He had fallen so hard for this man, had been ready to change his entire life, literally prostrate himself to his mercy, willing to give all and receive anything in return and now it was all for naught.

But hadn't he always? There was a part of John that had always been Sherlock's even before he'd been aware of it himself.

For that simple reason, it tortured John to imagine moving out. Giving up even their now strained, tentative friendship.

…

"Thank god your back, you have no idea how bad it's been here without you, John," Sarah explained, "What with the doubled patient load and everything."

"God, I was so worried when I heard, I literally thought for a moment you weren't going to pull through," Amal expressed looking utterly done in.

"Well, I'm back to ease the burden, all," John responded tersely addressing his coworkers as a whole.

Amal frowned, "I want to talk to you. In private in my office."

"Later. I have... Sarah, who do I have next?"

"Rogers," Sarah replied handing John a full cup of freshly brewed coffee.

Right. Honestly he loathed having to talk about any of it. Least of all to Amal who would see through all pretenses and immediately guess at exactly what was wrong.

…

John sat across from Amal in the man's office. He wanted to be able to match the other's look, but it was too concerned—too sympathetic, and he felt his gut tense. Instead he found himself staring around distractedly at the small bookshelf of medical texts, the pictures on Amal's desk, (one in which he had his arm draped around an older woman in a sari wearing a kind smile and a younger woman—his sister, Nisha?—with her hair done up and bright red lipstick complimenting her swarthy, exotic features), the basket of files, the pens, the patient table with a fresh white sheet of paper covering it, the jar of cotton balls, anything but the other man's Goddamned face.

"Wouldn't it just be better for you both if you moved out?"

John glared down at his hands, white knuckled fists clenching out of Amal's direct line of sight.

"You don't want to."

"I… I don't know if I can-"

"-But this… this staying with him, John, it can't be good for you."

"No. I'm fine. We're just friends. As we used to be. As we always have been. I'll get over it. It's not like anything even happened anyway. It's not like we ever firmly cemented anything between us."

"Right. Fine. You do what you think is right. It's none of my business anyway," Amal sighed, capitulating, "For what it counts, John… I'm sorry."

"No need to be," John tried for a tentative, placating smile, as forced as it was it came across rather stiff, "It's fine, really."

Amal nodded hesitantly. "If you ever need to, you know, talk to anyone, John. You know I'm always here for you."

John smiled tightly, resolutely. It would be fine. Really.

…

For weeks, the two men carefully navigated around one another, maneuvering about as if the mere act of touching would scald. There was a strained tension which John couldn't quite pinpoint the cause for, since, really, nothing changed. He still (grumblingly), snarked at Sherlock for the rude placements of his rather more grotesque experiments, and threw himself into the bulk of the housework. It was a panacea of sorts. To mechanically pick up where they left off. Scrubbing dishes, picking up the groceries, blogging about past cases, etc.

With the loss of all leads on Moriarty, Sherlock resigned himself to switching between taking smaller, more trivial cases (none of which John was invited to join), and languishing about in apathetic boredom.

They fell into a silent, (uneasy) agreement, in which the past would remain unmentioned. Unspoken. It was literally all John could do to comply. There wasn't any other option. He'd have to just let it go.

Just move on.

To an extent, it was like that time he'd come home from Afghanistan. As he lay in bed he stared at the top drawer where his Browning was safely tucked away. He remembered moments where he'd just hold it, contemplating.

But that was then. Even if all wasn't as he wanted for it to be, he still had purpose. Even if that purpose was to simply remain by Sherlock's side as his protector. Doctor. Somewhat trampled upon and sometimes erstwhile, tentative friend.

It's all he could be. It's all he would be allowed to be. And he swore an oath of duty, of near fealty to remain so.

And that would have to be enough. Perhaps, if he could convince himself of this, Sherlock would see it too, and they would carry on as before.

…

John walked in that evening after a long day at the office, laying his coat over the chair near the hearth, and sank down into it in exhaustion. As usual, Sherlock had draped himself over the sofa, lounging in a ratty mouse coloured robe. The one with patches where his bony elbows had worn through. His left sleeve was rolled up and John saw sherlock applying yet another nicotine patch.

"Four?" he expostulated, "Isn't that a bit… much?"

"My mind rebels against this utter stagnation."

"Speaking as your doctor, you know this level of nicotine in your system can play havoc with your cholinergic neurons. You could likely suffer neuromuscular shock from toxicity."

"Thank you Doctor Medical Textbook."

"Sherlock Holmes. Dead from Nicotine poisoning due to an Acute Case of Boredom. Is that what you want your Obit to read?"

Sherlock smirked and glanced over at John holding up a patch, "Want one?"

"No, I'll leave you to your own vices, thank you," he retorted, picking up his laptop.

John looked up to sound of the doorbell.

"Ah, perfect timing!" Sherlock sat up interestedly as Mrs. Hudson escorted a young woman into their flat.

"You couldn't be bothered to answer the door yourself?" The landlady frowned as she turned to leave and Sherlock grinned.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at so late an hour. Are you Mister Holmes?" The young woman queried, "It's just that I have quite a problem. I was told you were the best by a friend of mine. I don't have much, but I'll pay whatever you ask."

John raised a brow and sat up examining their guest. She was really, rather attractive in a humble sort of way. Wide, expressive, intelligent blue eyes and long blonde hair tucked back primly. Her small, pretty mouth, firmly frowned with inward agitation, yet she held her slender form with a certain air of dignified propriety. He liked her almost immediately. Sherlock too, seemed a bit fascinated. John leapt from his chair and introduced himself, offering the lady a soother(one of Mrs. Hudson's own) and tea, which she gratefully accepted.

"School teacher. Accent and fashion implies you hail from Edinburgh. This is a family matter I presume. Missing father or some such?"

She looked impressed, "You're every bit as clever as Cecil said you were."

Sherlock grinned, always one for flattery, "Hardly all I can gather from you, but nevertheless, why don't you take a seat and unburden yourself."

She introduced herself as Mary Morstan and regaled her story, while both men leaned forward attentively.

…

As if, presumed, Sherlock whipped John along on the case, for the first time in weeks.

It was definitely one for the blog, and John felt himself reeled in as old times, ecstatic to be involved.

All the time, it seemed as if Mary appealed to John's sense of tender sympathy, and he could barely help from showing it to her. If not for the fact that Sherlock was his regular, cold, concise, unpersonable self, running about with barely a nod in the young woman's direction.

Here she was. Responsive. Admiring of Sherlock's shadow, and not the man himself. She took to John, and it was… enlightening.

She was kind, and brave and John couldn't resist, to some extent, admiring her in return, shuttering out the pain of Sherlock's rejection.

Which is why, at the closing of the case, he was surprised to find himself… for some peculiar reason that utterly befuddled him, not wanting her to leave.

It was as if John couldn't but help latching on to this new, bright point in his otherwise dim, unhappily chilled life. Reawakened by the sense that maybe, he had found someone, if not to replace Sherlock, but maybe to patch a small part of the gaping hole within as if she'd become a sort of bandage for his broken, trodden upon heart, barely beating, and once again, it seemed a bit… revived. And she was amenable. And there. And willing to be that.

For so long he'd thought; been resigned to believe, that that particular life wouldn't be fulfilling. Where he could be simply normal, have a family; all displaced by the rush of being beside Sherlock.

But the man had rejected him on that level which he'd sought a sort of solace, and now… here was Mary.

So, unplanned, without careful consideration, he did the one thing he could think of to keep this small ray of light that had lit him from within, and he proposed.

And she accepted.

…

At the Clinic, he relayed the story to a rather taken aback Amal.

"You did what!"

"Asked her to marry me."

The man sat stunned, bewildered. "You're taking the piss. No way."

"She said yes," John grinned.

Amal sat in silent contemplation, his hand pressed across his mouth.

"Uhuh. So you thought this through?"

John shrugged, grinning, "Not really. It seemed the thing to do at the time."

"And you still think this is a good decision," the man frowned.

"Of course!"

"You don't think this is a bit… I don't know. Hasty? She's not some sort of, er… rebound?"

John grimaced, "Rebound to what? I mean, of course not. She's perfect. Exactly everything I've always wanted in a partner. Kind, smart, caring, witty, beautiful…perfect."

And John believed himself as much as he was able. She was perfect.

She would be perfect. John was adamant. And damn what anyone else would believe of it.

Though he couldn't help… but feel a twinge of anxiety as he considered Sherlock.

Amal's frown deepened, "And you've told-"

"-Going to. This evening."

The man leveled him with a look a concern. "John," he sighed, "I'm glad for you. I'm glad if you're happy. If you believe you are-"

"There is no 'belief' of it. I am-"

"-Fine. As I said… good. Just be…er, careful with the way you inform Sherlock."

John frowned.

"Why. There's nothing between us. Why be 'careful'? He doesn't want-"

"-Have you considered that he may be holding you at arm's length because he's worried for your safety? That he still might care for you, John?" Amal argued.

"He doesn't," John defended stubbornly, "I'm a distraction to him. He needs me solely as a colleague. In no way else. He told me as much."

Amal sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his straight black locks, which he'd been letting grow long the past few weeks. More from being ridiculously busy than as a style choice.

"So. You've a date set?"

"Tentatively. It's going to be small. Just close friends and family. You're invited, of course."

Amal smiled wearily, "Thanks. Um. I suppose congratulations are in order then? Let's head out for a pint later."

John agreed, feeling relief flood him. If Amal approved, then really, perhaps he had made the right decision.

No. Of course he had.

…

"So… she accepted my proposal."

Sherlock visibly retracted in his seat, shutting his eyes and groaning dismally. For a split second his companion almost looked pained, and John felt his heart stammer in his chest, nearly aching with momentary regret. He tamped it down immediately.

"I feared as much. I really can't congratulate you."

John frowned and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, (heart still beating too rapidly), "Have you reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?"

"It's not a matter of being 'dissatisfied', she's a fine woman. If you're going to go about attaching yourself to a mate, at least she has a sliver of cleverness. For once, I can't find fault in your 'choice'."

John inwardly withered. Sherlock's implication that he'd been a faulty choice… hurt. Again, he forced aside the thought.

"And where does this…er, leave us?" John queried, hesitantly.

"I suppose this means you'll be abandoning me."

John scowled, 'as if you hadn't abandoned me, first.' But he refrained from speaking the words aloud.

"I'm hardly abandoning you, Sherlock. She's moving to London to be here with me. She was accepted for a position in a local public. So I'll be here. Anytime you might need assistance with a case."

"Even so," Sherlock drawled, "I should rather be inclined to leave you to your happy marital bliss and not bother to intercede. You get exactly what you need of it."

Well fuck. The man didn't grasp at what John actually needed. He felt an inner resentment boil within.

"I admit, I'm disappointed you've ceded to convention after all, but it was inevitable, wasn't it? I, on the other hand, can maintain my focus without you here, in the way."

_Bastard!_

"So you're alright with this then?" John all but spat out.

"Of course. I'm glad for you," Sherlock said dismissively, lazily laying back down upon the couch, "Good for you, John."

He had fought so hard against John leaving him and now, he was all but shoving him out the door.

John's head and chest pounded achingly, "Good. Thanks. Then if you're happy for me, I would like to ask you to be my Best Man."

Sherlock, rolled to his side, imperceptibly uttering a strange, strangled, disbelieving response in the negative.

"Why not?" John bit out irately, "You're my closest friend. And you apparently support my decision, so why the hell not stand for me in support at the ceremony?"

Sherlock shrugged, and John couldn't see the man's face, turned as it was from him, "I support your choice. Mary is fine, John, but you can hardly expect for me to be happy of it."

"Why?" John demanded with growing anger boiling in the pit of his gut.

Again, the other man shrugged turning back over to level John with an inscrutable, terse look, masking quickly back over some unnameable inner turmoil and John couldn't help but wince.

"I would've presumed you'd be a bit more logical than throwing yourself into so nonnegotiable a commitment."

Subtextually, John could hear Sherlock's underlying implication. Recalled him saying once, how John would regret forming a relationship that would draw him into domestic comforts he was little inclined for.

Secondarily, implying Amal was correct in assuming he was using Mary as a rebound. As an escape from his clawing need for Sherlock (the other half of himself).

And really, it was as if he was severing himself in two, but again, he reminded himself adamantly that Sherlock had already done so on his behalf, without his consent.

Anger, resentment, rejection and shame warred within and John once again, stomped it all back. Crushing it down beneath his metaphorical cleated boot.

"Still, as my friend, I expect you to support me in spite of your so-called misgivings," John demanded, "I want you at my wedding."

"Mm," Sherlock indeterminably responded.

As he lay in bed, he tried so very hard to be happy. To think of nothing but the winsome, lovely smile of his Mary.

Downstairs, beneath him, echoed out the strains of Sherlock's violin; fiercely violent and discordant then waning off into agonizing, disconsolate and deeply melodic keening. It was as if the man had taken a cleaver to the chest and was bleeding out, and John was motionless to respond. To save him from himself.

John choked back a brutal punch of emotion cloaking over him. It was revenge. That's what it was. His limbs felt numb and tingling with a need to rise from his bed and confront the man downstairs. Suppressing it was wretched, and he nearly wept with it.

It was utterly unjust. He'd been denied and yet, punished all in the same breath.

…

Folks gathered round, and John had yet to see Mary. She'd be escorted down the aisle by a friend of hers from her school in Edinburgh. A kindly, handsome chap by the name of Cecil, whom had earlier, clasped John's hand in congratulations with absolute conviction that bespoke of warmth of feeling. He related to him of a service Sherlock had once provided, and requested that he pass on his greetings which John acceded he would do.

Amal and Sarah chatted away merrily in the corner, and John looked up to where Harry had entered in with her date. A woman garishly and nearly inappropriately clad in a dress which forced the unwilling viewer to perceive of her bountiful cleavage.

John cringed as he glanced a hesitant look over toward Clara (one of his oldest friends whom he knew had made quite a compromise to come knowing Harry would be here). Dressed impeccably, graceful and gorgeous, in spite of her collected demeanor, she wore an expression of underlying pain as she unwillingly acknowledged her ex shashaying about, flaunting the floozy bint on her arm. They shared a brief look, and Clara followed John into the back of the small Church into his changing room.

They embraced, and John could barely keep from holding her to him, smothering his face into her rosemary-scented, loosely flowing, golden curls. His heart ached with the familiarity.

"John," She sighed, breathing into his neck, "It's been so long."

He murmured an agreement as she pulled back, her hands still gripping his shoulders and she leveled him with a softly fond, nostalgic gaze.

"Why do you look so done in?" She whispered frowning with concern.

"I've missed you, Clara. It's been ridiculous. Everything," John exhaled, finally just letting loose his innermost anxiety. It came swirling out before him, and for a moment, he relaxed into it, "I don't even know."

"Typical pre-wedding jitters?"

"No. Not at all," John grimaced, giving himself away. Clara eyed him suspiciously beneath her long, lowered lashes.

"What is it really."

"I know I'm making the right choice, but…"

"But what?" She furrowed her brow, concern lacing her tone. The two sat down beside each other, and Clara straightened his bowtie. "John, sweetheart. Please. Tell me." John hurt inwardly, hating himself for second-guessing himself.

"I can't."

She raised her eyebrows with alarm, "You can't what?"

"It's nothing. Please don't worry about it," he placatingly soothed her, running a hand along her back, "I'm fine. Really. Thank you. For being here. I know it wasn't easy for you to come-"

She snorted, "Oh, please, John. As if Harry could stop me from coming to see my dearest old friend on the day of his wedding. Believe me. Nothing in the world could stop me from being here with you. For you."

John felt a flutter within and smiled warmly at his beautiful companion in her perfectly tailored salmon Brioni. It really had been too long. He felt pained to realize they barely knew each other anymore, and wished he could remedy that in the near future. Though apart of him realized, that their lives had drifted apart and it wouldn't be practical or even logical to reestablish their old relationship. Times had changed, and he couldn't just dump out his problems on her anymore. They just… were no longer running along the same path.

"I hate to say it, John, but you honestly look exhausted. What's the matter? Really?"

John shook his head, "It doesn't matter. I'm being honest with you, seriously. I'm very lucky. I've an amazing woman out there, and I'm surrounded by my closest. Couldn't ask for more."

His innards twisted, crying out their dissent. Clara settled a hand on his face and kissed his cheek, calming him.

"I believe you," she sighed, "or rather, I believe you that you believe what you're saying. Now come. I've a seat reserved to watch my favorite man get married to his perfect lady."

As John stood at the altar, the small orchestra starting up, he couldn't help but glance around the small gathering for a hint of the figure with unruly black curled locks and piercing, unearthly crystalline blue eyes. Of course, he wasn't among them.

His breath hitched as Mary entered, escorted down the aisle. She looked… amazing. He wanted his heart and eyes to want this magnificent, wonderful woman approaching with a shy, lovely smile in his direction.

John's heart raced with anticipation, fists clenched at his sides, so rife with nerves he was utterly still. At any second would those doors fly open? Would he come bounding down shouting his objections? Confessing to all the world that John was his?

He caught in his periphery, Amal, glancing at him with a concerned look, and his eyes darted once more over the crowd. Harry and Sarah grinned up at him, while Clara granted him a gentle, encouraging smile.

He calmed as Mary stepped beside him, and gazed into her eyes. No. He was making the right decision. He nearly sighed with inward relief. Those doors would remain shut, as the other's, inside his heart ought to as well. A new door was opening, and John resolved himself to be happy for it.

All would be just fine. The way it was supposed to be.

(He didn't notice the figure up in the choir balcony overhead, glaring down silently from the shadows as he exchanged his vows.)

The night of their honeymoon was sweet and perfect, and he made love with his Mary, and all was right. It hadn't been overly passionate, yet it hadn't been left wanting either. He sought in her his relief, and prevented himself from picturing any other kind.

As he lay boneless, Mary tucked beneath him, head ensconced within his chest lulled to a slumbering purr of sleep within their shared embrace, he broke down inwardly.

He could almost hear the weeping tones of the violin curtaining about the sitting room of their flat, picturing Sherlock alone, abandoned, silhouetted against the roaring flames within the hearth.

…

His meager possessions wrapped away in boxes, sat upon the steps of 221. It looked as if he'd never moved in at all. Though really, his belongings being few among the strewn clutter of his flat mate, he'd hardly made a dent in the first place, as if he'd hardly made a dent in Sherlock's ever chaotic, larger than life, in reality.

John, setting down the last of them, wearily slumped down upon the steps and Sherlock sauntered out of the sitting room stopping as if stunned to see the evidence of John's moving, full well knowing it was happening, yet still almost… stung. As if it had taken physically, the boxes sitting there, to fully remind him of the solidity of the fact.

"You didn't come," John stated sharply.

"I didn't think it would be wise," the other man whispered. John frowned.

"I would have liked for you to have been there."

Sherlock sighed resignedly, "As I said, I didn't think it'd be wise," He gripped the balustrade as if it were the only thing clinging him, resisting him from moving toward the other man, "I do wish you well, John."

He held his hand out, "Don't be a stranger?" He quirked a grin, and John took his proffered hand reticently shaking it in agreement.

Their hands lingered for too long of a moment; firm, calloused hand encased within the cold slender, long-fingered one.

As John unpacked the last box into his new shared apartment with his wife calmly folding her linens into a drawer, he sighed.

God. (What had he done.)

..  
They hadn't spoken in months. Yet mostly, John blamed himself for that. He was too busy with work, with setting up house, with running errands with Mary and making their home and commitment something tangible.

And Sherlock was just an impediment, and John couldn't let him be so. Not anymore. So he lied and broke his promise. He would be a stranger after all. To be fair, the other man had simply dropped off the face of the earth. Hadn't texted or called or made any sort of attempt to contact him.

And it was fine. It was all fine.

Though in spite of keeping himself ridiculously preoccupied, something in him ached ever so, impossible to suppress completely. And Mary—she was amazing. Truly, the perfect woman. Perfect partner. Giving and kind and just lovely all around.

She seemed however, bent on getting John to invite Sherlock around for supper. He had negotiated a Sherlock-free holiday, but that was where it ended. It was right after New Year, and Mary insisted… nearly  _ordered_  John to extend Sherlock an offer for supper that evening. And really, he couldn't keep fabricating excuses.

Of course, he didn't really expect for Sherlock to respond to his texted invitation, and was therefore, rather alarmed to pull open the door and find the man standing there before him.

John gaped, feeling winded as he appraised the man. In the chill of the air, his breath swirled out before him, white, like smoke. As if he'd stepped out of a Dicken's novel wrapped up in his long black coat, snow flakes sparkling, caught in his locks, eyes piercing and nearly translucent against the dark of the winter streets behind.

Sherlock quirked a grin, breathing into his hands as he rubbed them in front of his mouth, "A bit nippy out here, I assume you're going to let me in sometime soon?"

Mary came rushing into the front hall, "Oh! Sherlock, so good of you to come! Please come in!"

She stepped past John to escort the man in, taking his coat, brushing off the snow before hanging it up.

"John wasn't sure if you could make it, but supper is just about ready as we speak. Settle in, please! Make yourself cozy, I'll be in the kitchen," She glanced at John, laughing kindly, "Pour him a bit of tea to warm him, would you dear? Poor man looks like he walked all the way here!"

"She's…hospitable," Sherlock quipped as Mary abandoned the two, rushing back into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, I, er…" John tried, rubbing his hands against his jumper, stumped for something meaningful to say.

"Really, all this nervousness John," the man drawled, stepping too close to him, "It's as if we hardly know one another."

John glanced up, warily, Sherlock just inches away, and he felt a trembling warmth flood through him. Uneasily, he darted a warning glance at his companion and looked back in the direction of the kitchen where his wife was merrily humming a Christmas carol.

"We are old friends, after all," Sherlock said in a deeply mellifluous, velvety tone. His eyes were shuttered darkly as he leveled John with an intense look, "Are you going to invite me to sit down, or are you going to keep blocking my way into your living room?"

John choked uncomfortably, flushing and flustered, backing away as if stung, "No. Please. Sit." He gestured a hand toward the nearest chair, and Sherlock, smirking up at John, lowered himself into it.

God, the tension was gripping. John shook it from himself, trying to clear his head as he poured Sherlock a cup of hot, freshly steeped oolong from Mary's small ceramic teapot.

Sherlock took the proffered cup gratefully, wrapping his icy hands around it and therefore catching the tips of Johns fingers in passing. John noticed the flush on the shelf-like cheekbones and frowned.

"You're nearly hypothermic," he accused, "What'd you do, seriously? Walk here?" He looked outside to where the bizzard whipped around curtains of white against the window, fogged with sweat from the heat inside.

Sherlock breathed in the steam rising from his mug, and grinned at John from across where he sat.

"Exercise."

It had been months since he'd last seen the man, and he could tell he'd dropped at least a stone, which on that already sparing frame looked positively beafran and waif like. For the first time, he looked the man up and down, and to John he seemed almost fragile, porcelain, entirely unhealthy, with dark circles purple beneath tired, puffy eyes.

John grimaced. The man was not at all taking care of himself. He wondered if he'd even eaten since John had left.

"'Exercise'? Seriously as if you need any."

"Yes, exercise, John. I'm sure you get plenty of that with the  _missus_ ," Sherlock leered.

John scowled, "Don't be rude, Sherlock. I'm concerned. You don't look well."

The man pouted, "I'm just fine, John. No need to play nursemaid. I can more than take care of myself without your meddling."

"Suppers up, boys! Dining room. Table's all set," Mary called out.

The two rose up and John swallowed thickly as they took their seats at the table. God, was this promising to be wholly uncomfortable. The silence was so thick it could barely be cut with an extremely well sharpened knife and so Mary took the initiative, picking up the metaphorical blade and carved clean through it.

"So," she said, with a delicate clearing of her throat, "I'm so glad you finally came. I know, what with your busy schedule you kept turning down John's invitations-"

Sherlock barked out a short, abrupt and jarring laugh, and raising his eyebrows, he leered at John with an almost threatening look. John shuddered inwardly with anxiety hoping beyond hope the man wouldn't reveal how John had never actually extended him an invitation before now.

"Oh, I wouldn't say I've been  _too busy_ …" he drawled sardonically.

John cringed, "Mary, darling, would you mind passing me the snifter?"

He filled up his tumbler a bit on the overflowing side and took a generous gulp, steeling his frayed nerves. Sherlock glanced at him, overly amused and lifted his fork up to his mouth.

The look on his face was nearly obscene, and John had to keep from flinching with mixed disapproval and arousal.

"This is quite delicious, Mrs. Watson. You're really very talented in the kitchen," he complimented, granting Mary an overtly charming grin. She flushed.

"Oh, well. It wasn't anything. Dear friend of mine's recipe. Steak and kidney pie. Very easy to make. I'll send you off with some," she said flustered, "John, darling, remind me to grab a tupperware."

John suppressed a groan.

After supper, Mary excused herself to the kitchen to wash up the dishes, leaving the two men to 'catch up' so to speak.

Sherlock was almost taciturn as the two shared the brandy. John on his third, overly full glass. A warm blush spreading through him, relaxing him down into the cushions he gazed up dazedly, head swimming, at his companion.

"What are you doing here."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in mock bafflement, "How do you mean? You invited me."

"Why now. Why come?"

Sherlock grinned lazily as he relaxed back in his seat, crossing his legs with easy grace. "Why shouldn't I come see how my friend is faring, settling into his married life? How is it you are faring, John," he asked darkly, looking up from under heavy lidded eyes.

"Just fine, grea-good. Thank you," he mumbled in response, his speech mottled with the hazing effects of the alcohol coursing its way through his system. It'd been ages since he'd had so much to drink, weary of following in Harry or his father's footsteps.

He hated that the man had to look so stupidly alluring sitting across from him wearing that ridiculous beautiful grin, and God, so inviting look. (Fuck.)

He'd thought the distance he'd put between them over the past month would abate some of this attraction, but apparently not.

"I was just informed earlier of a case. If you'd be interested. Might be one I'd let you write up about in that blog of yours."

Mary entered holding a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

"Oh, John! That'd be great!" She beamed, enthusiastically.

John glared up at his wife. Really? Did she have to be so damn interfering? Damn it. She was no help at all.

Not that she'd understand why John was so demurring, God, if she only knew.

No, crush that thought. Fuck.

"Um, I'll er.. I'll have to see, Sh-Sherlock," he fumbled ineloquently, "I'm sort of busy, the-"

"-John, weren't you just saying how relieved you were that the influx at the Clinic had lightened-"

"-Well, with this weather, they're bound to be swarming in, in hoardes," he argued.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "If you're too  _busy,_ John, I do under-"

"-No. Fine. Yes. Thanks. Love to tag along. What's the case?" John bit out hurriedly.

Sherlock smirked, "A small matter. One of relative unimportance. But if you're so inclined, it does have it's rather more fascinating features, the sort you'd appreciate."

"Ooh! Please tell," Mary begged eagerly.

John groaned.

There was a part of him that blinkered a warning, advising him this would lead down a path he could not, should not traverse.

(Though, Fuck All, he wanted to.)

…

It was almost… just almost like old times. As they raced down the darkened streets, John could barely take account his sudden filling sense of ecstatic relief.

This was what he'd been missing. The thrill, the chase. And Sherlock pounding the pavement beside him, smiling broadly at him. All harmonious and perfect, all tension utterly torn asunder and from within had expounded John full to the brim with adrenaline like laudanum. Blissful, transcendent. Mary but a shadow of a thought, not even close to quantifiable with this... This.

God what was it? Completion?

Why had he fought this? Nothing compared, and Sherlock, like a force of gravity, once again drew John to him. If this could be all it was, it would have been enough. Why had he ever thought otherwise?

Panting, out of breath from running, with eyes glittering darkly, Sherlock grabbed him and slammed him up against the brick wall behind the back alley of an old, abandoned and decrepit tannery of the last century.

"Sherlock! What-" John barely remarked his confusion, before the other man covered his mouth with his own. The warmth was exquisite against the outside chill, and it infused him. Despite all better judgment, or rather, tossing it all out the window, he kissed back, madly, frantically. Their lips bruisingly chasing against each other, and John moaned into it.

God, everything he'd wanted. It was unparalleled. The wispy, ineffectual intimacy between him and his wife shattered in the wake of this absolution.

With tunnel vision, and one pressing purpose, he followed the man as he dragged him back through the gates of their old flat. He pressed him once again against the wall, and John felt shattered to comply, as the other man ground his arousal into his own, thrusting forward. Arms snaked about each other, the man like a bloody octopus, and he was trapped beneath him, as he captured John's mouth once again, beneath his own in a heated fight of clashing teeth (Lord, the man's were sharp like a fucking wolf or shark or something equally as predatory) as they exchanged bitter spit, salty sweat and a bit of something coppery. (God, when had his lip split?)

Oh God. (Fuck!) Consciousness warped through him, flooding him with horrifying awareness, and he tore himself off.

Sherlock gazed at him with urgent lust, dark and menacing and feral, his chest rising and falling with fervency.

"Sherlock! We can't," John breathed, exhaling forcefully as he slumped against the wall. The other man grimaced.

"John. Don't-" he rasped out hoarsely, tortured.

John wished his arousal to subside, but within the heated proximity it pressed obstinately, tenting out his trousers. He forced a hand down, flushing hotly.

"I have a  _wife_. At home."

"Oh please. You wouldn't be the first to-"

"I'm not going to cheat on my wife," he declared determinedly, trying at conviction. At least for his own benefit if not his companion's.

"It's not  _cheating._  Semantics, John. All of it. We had-"

"Sherlock. Stop. The key word here being, we 'had'. The issue being that it's in the past. Something you put there. Not me. I can't," he bit out, head swimming, precariously unbalanced, chest aching.

"I hate that word 'can't'. It's such a fucking fallacy," Sherlock bit out. John cringed. The man rarely deigned to use expletives. "This. It's utterly moronic. To deny, John, I 'can't' deny. I can't fucking try to not want you. Need you," he explained breathlessly, glaring at the other man, "I can't breathe. I can't sleep. I can't keep doing this. You're some kind of drug I can't quit."

John moaned as the man attacked his neck delivering impassioned kisses, biting nips along his recently healed collar bone. He pressed into him, and John could barely help but buck his hips forward matching him reflexively.

He found his hand tightly clutching at his companion's curls and shut his eyes, grimacing, because God. Did that feel just… _Nnnf_.

"Sherlock. Stop," the words rolled from his mouth and barely held any meaning, any significance as that tongue darted behind his ear, and then inside of it, hot and wet. John nearly came, utterly lost the second the man's hand tightly gripped his erection through the fabric.

He lurched forward, grasping the man's neck and felt, just then, the cold of his ring against his finger.

"Stop. Stop."

He forced himself back, tearing himself away, and throbbed with the separation. The betrayal was stunning as he imagined his sweet, naïve wife back in their flat, awaiting his return. And God. What would she say, seeing in one short glance what those swollen, split lips meant, that fevered expression, the daze of settling completion. (Fuck.)

Sherlock glowered angrily, rife with loss.

"I'm sorry. What happened to me being a distraction? To me being a danger that you couldn't afford to care for?"

"John," he exhaled forcefully, "I can't be selfless. I don't care. I'll protect you-"

John flushed furiously, "I can protect myself, God Damn it. I told you I could. That it didn't matter. That I knew the risks and you pushed me away anyway-"

"-John-"

"-No. It's fucking too late. You cocked up and pushed me out the door, and I'm going to honour my commitment to my wife, even if you can't appreciate or respect that. Some of us, have morals, Sherlock."

"Ever a man of morals," Sherlock sneered unhappily, "You're wrong if you think you can stop this-"

John gaped incredulous, seething with fury, "-What gives you the right to imply that I'm not in charge of my own Goddamned destiny? I say this, here and now, for your sake, Sherlock. Back the  _fuck_ off. "

"I was there," Sherlock breathed, confessing.

John faltered, leveling the other man with a quizzical look, "What?"

"At your wedding. I was there."

John's heart caught in his throat as he glared in astonishment, "What!"

"I should have stopped it. I was going to."

"Fuck!" John grit out, "You utter, reprehensible prick!"

Sherlock growled, baring his teeth, and they flickered strangely bright in the darkened hallway, "End it. Come back here. With me."

John shoved himself away, and Sherlock grabbed his arm tightly, twisting him back against him.

"Get. The. Fuck. Off-"

"-John-"

"-You can't just go ordering me to take back my vows because you've fucking decided you've changed your mind. Too fucking late. It's all too fucking late. Fuck you, get the fuck out of my way."

John pushed himself from around the taller man and charged out the door without a parting glance. The wind whipped icily at his face, snow blind, eyes tearing at the cold, but he was already numb to it.

Nearly slipping on the ice on the stoop of his and Mary's apartment, he let himself in and threw off his jacket.

"John-?" Mary glanced up in alarm as he stormed toward her, "What on earth-"

He kissed her, ravaging her pretty mouth, discarding the taste of that maddening bastard he'd abandoned behind, and drinking in her sweet, blessedly, unadulterated purity.

It must have been a small bit astonishing for her as he nearly, fiercely, madly, manhandled her down onto their bed and made love to her, ravishing her, fucking her. Pounding out his anger into her, with sheer hot, white, blinding need for relief. She complied passionately and generously, lovingly and he hated her for it as he came inside of her cursing and shouting.

And then it was over.

The room caved in around him, tipping with dysphoric vertigo, as he held her repleted, gently sleeping form within his embrace, her hair caught in his mouth as his chin rested just over her head, and he tried to keep from holding her too tightly as hot streams coursed down his face.

He hadn't fucking cried since he'd been eight years old, and his father had told him sternly, that weeping was for sissies.

…

It was as if Mary, ever intuitively grasped that something was very much awry. She hadn't mentioned Sherlock once, nor had, much to John's relief, mentioned the rather forceful bit of lovemaking (if it could be called that) he'd inflicted upon her. It shamed him utterly, but she was so perfectly serene and docile and placating. Maneuvering around him as if he were a bomb set to explode at any moment. Feeding him supper and sleeping beside him, holding him nurturingly. It was as if she knew something and couldn't place it quite, but refused to pry, all gentle acceptance and perfectly accommodating.

Much to John's chagrin, over the following two days, Sherlock persistently texted him. He left all unopened, but hadn't the heart to delete them, God knows why. There was a part of him that just wanted to change his number and forget the other man had ever existed.

He threw himself into work, manically, acting as if the world was just stellar. Nothing wrong. Not in the least. With a tempered sort of madness, he drove on. And then he was abducted.

Well, not really  _abducted_ , per say. It was just Mycroft's Bentley pulling around as he left his office. The window lowered, and (Anthea? Or whatever her name was) gestured for him to come in. He sighed, complying, and sat down, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Dare I ask what this is about?"

Anthea(?) shrugged disinterestedly.

They pulled into a small vacant lot behind a parking ramp (again? Getting predictable…), and he got out to meet the urbane gentleman leaning on his Poppins'esque umbrella as if it were Gandalf's staff. John smirked inwardly at the reference. (Maybe he watched too much telly.)

"To what do I owe the pleasure this time around?" He bit out.

"Ah, ever so excellent to see you again, Doctor."

"I take it you wished to congratulate me on my recent nuptials?" He queried ironically.

The man grinned abstrusely, "Please, Doctor, I cannot commend you on that particularly quixotic display of poor judgment."

John scowled darkly, "Get to the point. Why am I here."

"I am here to intercede on Sherlock's behalf. You are here to listen to me."

John furrowed his brow, "He sent you?"

Mycroft leveled John with a peculiar stare, "Not precisely… he would never deign to request my assistance, nor would he be particularly pleased to know I'd taken the liberty to do so."

John huffed with annoyance, feeling a headache throb at the corners, "Right. Say your piece, so we can both go home at some point."

"Very well," he nodded prudently, "It's come to my…er, attention, that he is not, shall we say, doing well. Not, that I'm accusing you of having done anything purposefully malicious, simply, I've learned you've been rather…incommunicado."

"Yes. So I have. He's a prick, and I don't want anything to do with him."

Mycroft raised a prescient eyebrow, "…Ah. I see."

John squirmed uncomfortably beneath the other man's scrutiny, "It's none of your business."

"See…" Mycroft cleared his throat courteously, "that is where you are mistaken. Sherlock is my business, John."

"He's an adult. I think he can handle his own mistakes. On his own. Without you're butting in," John spat.

"Come now, John. Surely you don't believe that. He's rather little more than a child. He cannot manage his own emotions. He's not equipped, as we are, to do so."

John snorted, "Then handle them for him, and leave me out of it."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "You are the source of his downfall. You've manufactured in him sentiment which he cannot be rid of, and I am here to make you aware that I cannot and will not allow you to turn aside."

"Oh, dear God. Is this a 'you hurt him, and now you must pay' threat?" John rolled his eyes heavenward, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat.

"Did you 'hurt' him?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow literally up to his hairline, "I wonder at how you've done so."

"As I said. None of your business. And I didn't 'hurt' him. Whatever you think—Mr. Holmes, you've got it backwards."

"He 'hurt' you," the man mused, quirking a sly grin.

John nearly stamped his foot, but refrained, "Leave off. I'm heading home."

He turned to go, thinking he'd hail a nearby cab when the other man spoke once more, "He's in love with you."

(Fuck.) John pinched shut his eyes, stung. He slowly turned back around.

"I'm married."

"As I said, unwise, precipitous move on your part. If you so wish, I could have it annulled."

John gaped, "I do not 'so wish'. Don't you dare-"

"Come, come, John," Mycroft said placatingly, "I will not. I only think that perhaps the two of you could put aside your petty differences and come to some kind of an accord. Surely, you don't wish to see him spiral into self-destruction as he has been doing. I highly suggest you make amends. Explain to him your wish to continue your… friendship. I could make it worth your while to do so."

John glared openly at the other man, "Not interested in bribes, thanks."

"It's not a bribe-"

"Then it's a threat."

Mycroft sighed, "No, John. I am not threatening you, I am… asking you. Kindly. Consider this: would you not, for all of Harriet's desperately hazardous choices, readily wish to aide her in any way if you saw she was in need?"

John frowned, caving, "I… I suppose I would."

"Make amends with my brother, John."

"Easier said than-"

"-Try."

Fuck. This was all he needed.

"I am not saying you have to return his sentiment," the man explained casually, "though I know that you do…"

John winced.

"I am merely advising you to respond to his texts. Or visit him. As I said before, he's not quite well."

"I could see that last time I saw him," John muttered, his heart aching.

"Then do, John, what you know is right."

God. He could barely believe he was taking counsel from Mycroft. Of all people.

…

John sat across the table from Mary as they dined silently.

"John?"

He looked up to match his wife's quizzical expression.

"John, I know you haven't been…er, quite right recently, something happened with Sherlock."

No. Not this conversation. Not right after Mycroft. John mentally kicked himself.

"It's taken care of."

She frowned. "Alright," Mary said slowly, cautiously, "It's just that, I feel like there's been a rift between the two of you, and I feel partially to blame."

"We're fine, and none if, Mary, none of it has anything to do with you. Please don't think that."

She gazed at him astutely, "I would like to think you're right on that, but, John. I'm not… " she wrung her hands anxiously, "I'm not blind. That man, he's…"

She looked at him as if willing John to complete her thoughts, dreaded as they were to articulate. He suppressed a grimace and tried for a calming smile.

Mary leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table, setting aside her water glass. "John," she sighed, "Do you realize he's er… a bit taken with you?"

John cringed and crossed his arms defensively, failing to come up with a proper response.

"I'm not jealous. I know you don't feel the same way."

Fuck, oh, fuck. John wished he had a mirror so he could see whatever expression he was wearing that had made Mary's face suddenly flush pink.

"It doesn't, you know, matter to me. If you, er… have a history."

"That's good of you. But we don't. Not in the least, so please don't-"

"-John," she exhaled with exasperation, "Calm down. I just, don't want to interfere with your friendship. It predates me, and I know how much you… er, mean to each other."

John flinched back as if struck.

"Mary…" he whispered, all but pleading.

God, please don't pull this out of him. Not now.

She licked her lips nervously. "John, I'm just. Don't give yourself a heart attack," she laughed kindly, "I just want for the two of you to… speak again. It was apparent that you hadn't actually been attempting to at all until I forced you the other night, and obviously the two of you had some kind of falling out-"

"-Mary!" John exclaimed shortly, "Stop. It's fine. Like I said, I'm taking care of it. It's taken care of."

She nodded slowly acceding, and they finished their supper in silence.

…

The first thing John did upon Mary heading off to bed, was to open the flood of texts. He did so with trepidation, as his inbox was nearly crammed with the damn things.

_John. –SH_

_John, please. Don't ignore me. –SH_

_I'm sorry. –SH_

_I shouldn't have asked you to leave your wife. –SH_

_I was wrong. –SH_

_But I'm not sorry I kissed you. –SH_

_If I promise it won't happen again, will you respond? –SH_

_You're mad. I know. I'm admitting I was wrong. –SH_

_I can't let you walk out of my life. –SH_

_This is intolerable. I can't sleep. –SH_

_I won't say any of it again. We can go back to the way it was before. –SH_

_Do you know how wretched it is, how much I loathe sounding desperate? –SH_

_Fuck all, I am. –SH_

_I need you in my life. Any way I can have you. Doesn't matter. We can be friends. Nothing more. –SH_

_I respect your marriage, John. –SH_

_John? –SH_

_I'm making tea. –SH_

_Burnt it. –SH_

John raised an eyebrow, (how do you 'burn' tea?)

_Hand too, apparently. –SH_

_1_ _st_ _degree. Ran it under the tap. –SH_

_I found that striped jumper of yours. –SH_

_I'm holding it hostage until you text me back. –SH_

_It smells like you. –SH_

… _Not good? Not good. Got it. –SH_

_Maybe that sounded a bit iffish. –SH_

_John, please RESPOND! –SH_

_I miss you, John. –SH_

_Please, come back. –SH_

_Disregard the last few messages. Delete them. I promise I won't tell you how much I –SH_

_Fuck it, John. –SH_

_Do you know that there are over 100 million neurons in the human brain? –SH_

_Brains. –SH_

_Ah, phrenology. Bad 19_ _th_ _century science, that. –SH_

_I wonder what this lump on my head would mean? –SH_

_Frontal, Temporal, Occipital, Parietal, Cerebellum. –SH_

_My synapses hurt. –SH_

_5 patches. –SH_

_Have you ever noticed your ceiling has water damage in the left hand corner by the door? –SH_

_I found a Herpyllus Blackwalli crawling along the floor by my head. I put her in the butter container. Did you know she was spinning a web where your bed was? –SH_

_She seems displaced. Unhappy. –SH_

_I should probably find her some food. –SH_

_BRB –SH_

_Are you sleeping? –SH_

_It's 3:22. –SH_

_I think I have a spider bite. –SH_

_Where did you put the antiseptic? –SH_

_NM. Found sulfuric acid. –SH_

_Not a good solution. Burnt hole in table. Plan B. Menthol liniment and baking powder? –SH_

_No. That's for bee stings. –SH_

_Bees. –SH_

_What if I were to move to Sussex Downs and start a honey farm. –SH_

_You prefer jam on your toast, nm. –SH_

_Foul reek in bottom drawer of fridge. –SH_

_Located. Remember those toes from a few months back? –SH_

_Binned them. –SH_

_Done with nail study anyway. –SH_

_Do you think Molly needed them back? –SH_

_It would have been amusing to send them to her anonymously. –SH_

_John? –SH_

_You're probably asleep. –SH_

_Goodnight, then. –SH_

_John, it's 7:45 a.m. and you still haven't responded. You're not dead are you? –SH_

_Knew I shouldn't have let you run off in the cold. Probably slipped on some ice and cracked open your skull. –SH_

_I hate to imagine your temporal lobe laying out in some street somewhere. That was my favourite part. –SH_

_Close tie with cerebral. –SH_

_Spider is dead. Probably ought to have poked holes in lid. –SH_

_Gave proper burial. –SH_

_Under the snow, that is. –SH_

_Said a bit on your behalf. –SH_

_I'm sure it was appreciated by the egg sac in the web. –SH_

_Perhaps I ought to remove that. You're arachnophobic aren't you? –SH_

_Mycroft is bothering me. –SH_

_3 patches. That's it. I hope you're happy. –SH_

_Right. Applied a fourth. John where are you? –SH_

_Lestrade called. Ignoring. –SH_

_Bored. –SH_

_Maybe should have answered call. –SH_

_Should I call him back? –SH_

_No. Let him call me. –SH_

_Thinking about getting a bull pup. Saw a listing in classifieds. –SH_

_Thinking of naming him something droll. That you'd find amusing. Cardiff? Maximillian? Glasgow? Gladstone? –SH_

_Gladstone it is. –SH_

_Decided probably not wise after all, since spider died. –SH_

_Johnathon Hamish Watson. –SH_

_So quintessentially Scottish. You'd never guess my middle name. –SH_

_Won't tell you unless you text me back in the next 3 minutes. –SH_

_Minutes are up. You lose. –SH_

_Burnt the toast. Giving up. Not good at this. –SH_

_You're better at it. –SH_

_Making tea and toast. –SH_

_Milk also gone off. Tossed out with toes. –SH_

_John. Please. Text me. –SH_

_Now. –SH_

_I'll set the flat on fire. –SH_

_John? –SH_

_I wasn't serious. –SH_

_TXT ME! –SH_

_Fine. PLEASE will you text me. –SH_

_I'm trying to be polite, see? –SH_

_I can't do this. I'm going mad. It's too empty. In the flat. In my head, everywhere. –SH_

_Just tell me if you're alright before I'm forced to do something drastic. Like contact your wife. -SH_

_Right. Probably shouldn't. You're fine. You're just ignoring me out of spite. –SH_

_Please respond. –SH_

_Nightfall again, still nothing. I gave you five hours. FIVE. Nothing. –SH_

_I can't do this alone. –SH_

_Morning again. The couch is horrible for one's neck. –SH_

_Bored. Couldn't sleep. Watched some inane rerun. One of your shows. Why do you like this crap? –SH_

_Wooster: I don't know what you've been doing to the cooker, Comrade Jeeves, but I don't seem to be able to get the gas lit. Jeeves: It's electric, Sir. –SH_

_Mildly humourous. (Mildly). –SH_

_Funnier when you're around. –SH_

_John? –SH_

_Please tell me Mycroft didn't kill you. –SH_

_He did, didn't he. –SH_

_Now I'm going to have to plot his demise. –SH_

_Want to help? –SH_

_If you don't respond soon, I'm going to –SH_

_I'll just stop. I give up. –SH_

_No more texts, nothing. I won't try any longer. I can't. –SH_

John grimaced. What was that? Like one hundred straight texts? The phone vibrated in his hand.

(Another one. Christ.)

_John? –SH_

(Fuck.) He quickly typed out a response:

_Sherlock stop. My msg's are almost full. I'm fine. –JW_

_YOU REPLIED! –SH_

_Calm down. My head is not smashed open on the icy streets of London, nor has Mycroft done me in. –JW_

_And I appreciate you getting rid of the spider eggs, though I have to remind you I'm not living there anymore so it doesn't really matter either way. –JW_

_John. Come at once. I need to –SH_

_I want to speak with you in person. Will that be acceptable? –SH_

_Tomorrow evening. 5:30, that work? –JW_

_Fine. –SH_

John sighed and flipped shut his phone, re-pocketing it. Lord, was he persistent.

…

"I think it's probably a bit obvious to everyone that there's something going on between you two. Ever since you got married, which hasn't been that long, John, you've been up and down like some kind of yoyo."

John chased down the rest of his ale, staring down into the bottom of the glass, the bar kaleidoscoped through it, "I'll be fucked if Mary even suspects the truth."

Amal started, taken aback. "Are you saying, John," he tried carefully, "that there is something…er…"

"No!" John slammed down the glass, completely hammered. "Not saying that. Well it was, er, there was a bit. But nothing…y' know. Er. Much of it."

"What…?"

"Kissed me. 'at's all. Nothing er.. crazy."

Amal nodded slowly as John hiccupped, "God I'm so fucked. Y'know he sent me like a thousand texts when I ignored him after it, 'n then his brother said he was (hic)  _fuck._  Said he's 'in love with me'. Gotta a wife, though, y'know?"

"Yeah, I'm aware of that," Amal drawled acerbically.

"Wife practic-practical-(hic) Fuck it! Said he was too."

"I can imagine that was a bit startling," he retorted dryly, "So you're meeting him tomorrow night?"

"Can't be, h-helped. Brother forced me."

"Odd family dynamics, they have. Overly-protective, much hated older brother. God, thank Christ, Nisha is normal. Think I'll call her and thank her for that tomorrow."

"Have to somehow make him see, that this…can't, y'know," John gestured at himself, "h-happen."

"Maybe you ought to ease up on the tap. Think it's about bar close, anyway, John…"

"I don't know what I can say. I-I can't just stop wanting him, apparent-ap (hic), it can't be done, but I can't just, y'know end my marriage over it. I love Mary."

"But you also love Sherl-"

"-Stop. Stoooop," John leaned forward dropping his head melodramatically into his arms, "Just don't. Arright?"

"Um, sure."

"I want to be frie- I need to have him (hic). In my life? Y'know. Not good not having him there. All's awful. Just  _fucking_  not even a bit good. But I think, Amal, if we're just friends, it's not going to-to (hic), It's not going to be p-possible for us to remain that way. I c-can't. Can. Not. At all. Even f-fathom cheating. It makes me s-(hic)  _sick_. To think of it. I mean Mary is so…so… understanding. Amazing. I'm such a fucking prick. I hate myself."

Amal frowned, setting a calming hand on his friend's back, "It, er… I'm sure things'll work themselves out, John."

"Thanks, mate. You really are, y'know?" John hiccupped again, "Really, really, a good mate."

Amal flushed, "John really, you're being kind of er… maudlin."

"No! No! I mean it. Amal you're like the, er…(hic) really the best of 'em!"

Amal frowned and helped the man out of his chair. John leaned heavily against him, swaying. "I think it's time we get you back to the missus."

"Right. 'Kay. Thanks."

Amal covered there tab and escorted John out the door, sighing.

…

_SHERLOCJ! –JW_

A moment later:

_John? –SH_

_I dontg –JW_

_That made no sense. –SH_

_I m not f,k- JW_

_Illogical. –SH_

_Shuttupq. I'm want to tell yu something –JW_

_Ah, you're inebriated. –SH_

_IM DFINE not. just a bit buzz arnd the edgesr –JW_

_Drunk texting. This is entertaining. –SH_

_What did you want to tell me, John? –SH_

_I hatre you. –JW_

_That's a bit antagonistic. –SH_

_Stop usink fuckn big words. Myhead hurts we all know ur smart. Gotitt –JW_

' _Antagonistic'? –SH_

_Cannt evn fucking read that what –JW_

_IQ drops significantly with imbibing alcoholic substances. Noted. –SH_

_Who abandoned you to your own devices with your cell? –SH_

_I'd like to shake their hand. –SH_

_Oh cut the shite, Sherloc! –JW_

_You keep spelling my name wrong. This is far more fun than anything on the telly. Should get you drunk a bit more often. –SH_

_And then have iur way with me? –JW_

There was a silence of nearly an entire minute.

_Is that something you'd be amenable to? –SH_

_Wait what –JW_

_Never mind, John. Good night. –SH_

John stared down at his phone in confusion, before passing out on his sofa.

…

Work was… not entirely pleasant the following day. John's head ached horribly, even after downing the remainder of the aspirin Mary had dug out of the medicine basket from under the sink in their loo.

He nearly died as he scrolled back through his texts the previous night. (Fuck, what was he thinking?)

There was a part of him that was sorely tempted to bash his head against the wall and end it. It was going to be damn awkward to face Sherlock later that evening.

Diane looked at him uncertainly, taken aback by his blanched, ill looking expression, "You alright, John?"

"Never better," he muttered.

…

John stood outside of 221 with deep set anxiety. He tried breathing meditatively for a few seconds and then decided to go for it. No reason to be nervous. Calm, collected, in control.

He reached out to press the buzzer when the door flew open. He was nearly crashed into by an exiting Lestrade, who just about tripped over him.

"Oh! Excuse me, John! Didn't know you were-"

"No, It's fine, how've you been?" John asked stabilizing the other fellow by grabbing his elbows before he tumbled down the steps. The D.I righted himself and quirked a grin at the other man.

"Busy. The Yard's got a possible lead on something, but we can't be sure yet. Had to consult with Sherlock on the matter."

"Something important?"

Lestrade looked strangled for a reply, unsure if he should relate back the confidential information, "We're not sure yet. Hoping it's not what I think it might be."

John furrowed his brow at the cryptic remark, "Alright-"

"-Really, I should be asking how you've been, Doctor," Lestrade interjected, grinning, "Haven't seen you about much since you got yourself hitched. I imagine you and the missus are busy setting up house?"

John frowned warily, "Er-"

The D.I. smirked, "-Any Jr. Doctors we should be knowing about on the way soon?"

John's frown deepened, "Not, er-"

"-Ah. Don't mean to pry," he waved his hand in the air and turned serious, "I'll get out of your hair, I have to get back to the Yard ASAP."

"Right, well. Good to see you."

"Likewise."

John watched the Detective Inspector race out to his patrol car. He nodded out the window at John as he sped off.

"John."

John flipped around startled, to see Sherlock standing in the doorway.

"Sherlock!" John sputtered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked, leaning casually against the entryway with his hands in the pockets of his sleek-lined, jet-black jacket. John's heart tripped over itself in his chest, and he felt a slight flush creep onto his cheeks. "Care to come up?"

John nodded, as the man turned away, and he followed him up the steps, wearily. Trying very hard not to watch the man's hips, and that pert, sculpted…

(Fuck.)

They entered into the flat, and Sherlock offered him a seat, which he took gratefully.

Sherlock sat down across from John masking his pleased expression, "I'm glad you've come."

John felt a bit sheepish, "Sherlock, about the er-"

"-The alcohol induced ramblings via text?" he cocked his head, smirking.

"Yes. Well."

"You said you had something to say to me?"

John sighed, "A bit. Yes."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. He folded his hands in his lap and leveled John with a patient glance. "I presume my dear brother stuck his colossal proboscis into my business, then, after all," he pouted, "What did he say to you."

"That's… er, personal," John defended, "This is between you and me."

The other man nodded in agreement, "Either way, I'd like to speak my piece first, if that would be acceptable?"

John sighed wearily, "Of course. Yes. What."

"I would like to formally apologize for my actions."

John furrowed his brow, "…Right. It's fine."

Sherlock sighed and bent down his head, "It's not 'fine'. I respect your marriage. As I said. It was foolish of me to act otherwise. It was illogical. As I maintained in the first place, I only have wish that we continue our partnership. Platonically speaking, if you still care to."

John was taken aback, utterly baffled, "That's er… changeable of you. What led this on?"

"A revelation of sorts. You're married, and that suits you, and your… contentment is all that I wish," he explained coolly, "That being said, I've reminded myself of my duty to vanquish the ever present threat to your person as well as to many others."

"Moriarty," John stated dumbly.

Sherlock sat forward excitably with a dark, manic expression, "Yes."

"That's what Lestrade was here about then? Some lead he mentioned-"

The other man looked at him considering before he spoke, "It is indeed, but that we'll speak later of. I have some… research to see to. At any rate John, I simply asked you here today so that we could lay matters out on the table, and agree to put the past behind us."

John felt that familiar ache grip at him once more. But no. This is precisely what he'd come here for. To put matters behind them. To re-establish their friendship. Nothing more, nothing less.

John nodded slowly, "Right then, will you er… let me know then, if you could er, use my help in any way with the case?"

Sherlock frowned, putting a hand to his chin, "I wouldn't wish to further endanger you, but, I could very well think there is a way we could go about this where you might prove to be of great use. Without threat to life or limb."

John sighed with relief, grinning, "Great then. Let me know if anything comes up. I'd love to get my hands around his scrawny Mick neck."

The other man genuinely laughed and clapped his hands together in glee at John's declaration. "Yes, well, I wouldn't blame you. Between abducting you and nearly blowing you up, I would rather think you'd feel that way," he paused quirking a grin, "Mick versus Mick."

John scowled.

"First off. Not Irish. Scottish, but more importantly. English," he said defensively, "Got the metals to show for it."

Sherlock nodded, "And the gun."

"That too," John agreed jovially.

"Yes. Thoroughly Queen and Country," Sherlock rose up and stuck out his hand, "Well, then, John," he said matter-of-factly, "I'm confident we've set the books straight, today. And I'm glad we're of agreement."

John stood as well, and took the other man's hand in a firm, clinical handshake.

He decided to walk back to his apartment. It was all very indecisive as to whether he felt reenergized or strangely, ebbingly numb to the conclusion they'd reached.

…

Sure enough, a week later he received a text that ordered John back over to 221B.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door at half past six and hurriedly ushered him in taking his coat.

"I can't tell you what a relief it is that you're here, John. He's been an utter loon these past few days. He's kept his curtains tightly drawn, and hasn't once left the flat. And those policemen keep calling. I'm sure there's something bad afoot."

"John!" Sherlock shouted, poking his head round the door of the flat, "Come up at once!"

John cleared his throat, furrowing his brow, "Er. I'll be right up."

The landlady gave him a peculiar warning glance before fleeing back into her rooms.

Sure enough, the room was dim, without one light on, as if the man had turned into some kind of agoraphobic shut-in.

"Is everything alright?" John queried worriedly.

Sherlock seemed nervous, pacing about, "Fine. Everything is fine. I needed to warn you to stay away from me, and far, far away from Baker street, if you can, until I let you know otherwise."

John furrowed his brow stung, "Then why did you call me over today? What is this to do with?"

"I'll tell you later," he whispered frantically, "I know we're safe at the moment, I've got the Yard just outside. Just promise me you won't try to seek me until I call."

John nodded slowly, agreeing, "Right then."

The man turned swiftly on the ball of his foot, and snatched up a phone. "Take this. The line can't be traced. You'll only be able to receive incoming messages and calls from me."

John pocketed the phone with more concern than ever.

"Now leave. Immediately. I have a patrol set to escort you home."

"Sherlock I-"

The man grinned queerly, and John tensed, "Now head on off. All's fine. Don't worry about anything and don't think too much. It all might clear itself up in a few days. Now off. I've work to do."

John frowned as he was literally pushed out the door.

(Well, that was a bit off.)

…

Over the following week, John had, with regularity, decisively attempted to squash out his fear for his friend as well as all lingering feelings. Sherlock was clearly taken up in something and didn't want John around.

(So whatever.) He shrugged it off.

To distract himself, he'd been more attentive to Mary, working on their relationship. Taking her out to a few nights on the town, wining and dining her. Romancing her.

Yet for some peculiar reason that nagged John, she seemed… distant. It wasn't anything obvious. They still laughed and chatted about their day, and he'd attempted to show her, intimately, that she was all he wanted. Needed.

Whatever it was, John tried to push it aside rather than dwell endlessly. Maybe it was all just in his head.

…

"So…" John furrowed his brow at his wife as she busily packed her suitcases, "You're visiting your friend in Edinburgh?"

"Yes, Elena's mother passed, and the poor dear has no family to assist her with clearing the estate. She was practically my sister in boarding, and my dearest friend."

John frowned, "How long will you be, er… gone for?"

"Not sure yet. Two…maybe three weeks. I'm hoping it'll be only a short while, but it could be up to a month. At any rate, I cleared my absence with the school until February."

John nodded his head, "Right, I'll see you off then?"

Mary grinned, "Oh, John, you're a dear, but I've planned for Cecil to drive me up."

John grimaced inwardly. She'd been rather off lately (and this just proved it)… and now she was running out for a month back home. It had to be more than she was letting on.

Damn it.

…

It was strangely quiet without Mary beside him in their bed. The comforting sound of her gentle breathing, the light jostling tug of the sheets as she'd turn over.

John felt a bit miffed. He knew it was unreasonable considering his own wandering temptations, but he'd made an effort in his heart and his mind to put those aside for her. It jabbed at his pride as his he imagined Mary traveling up north beside Cecil.

Stupid, though. The man was simply an old acquaintance of his wife. Nothing untoward about it.

Then, as if impossible to resist, his thoughts meandered lazily over to Sherlock. There was a fear that nagged him settling into the pit of his gut. What was the man doing? Was he safe?

He wanted desperately to be of some assistance, but he'd been shut out, once again. Was it for his own safety or did Sherlock simply not wish to have him around? Not that John would dare feel hurt by this. He'd been relieved they'd come to settle for a practical, if not rather detached relationship, but…

He felt a dip in the bed on his left hand side, an insinuating warmth settling in close beside him. A hot breath against his neck, the subtle rise of the fine hairs across his body tingling, compulsorily alert. A hand with fingers longer than his own grazing lightly, tracing his jawline; smooth and satiny, speaking of endeavorings of the scholarly variety rather than that of hard labour, yet smattered with small scars and stains on the tips from a myriad of chemical experiments. The slight yellow indentation of a callous between his middle and index from the days of a severe smoking habit.

He exhaled, and the phantom vanished.

' _If thy right hand offends thee, cut it off.'_

…

Amal looked at John slyly as he entered the break room.

"Forget your lunch?"

John sighed, slightly embarrassed, "I'm so used to Mary packing one for me nowadays…"

"Trouble in paradise?" Harold quipped.

John frowned, "Nope. Out of town."

Sarah laughed, "Creature comforts of the domestic life…"

"What would you know of that Ms. Permanent Spinster?" Amal cracked.

Burned by the jibe Sarah flinched, "I've a boyfriend you twit. Shut it."

Harold raised an eyebrow, "Since when."

"Since none of your business," The physician flushed.

Amal snickered, "Is that a new watch?"

She flushed brighter, "Erm. Well yes. Tony picked it up for me in Brighton."

"Tony?" John inquired grinning.

"Yes. He's a Dentist. We met-"

"-Oh, Lord. It's like a sitcom. Let me guess, routine filling?" Amal chuckled.

Sarah lowered her eyes and smiled prettily, "He's very talented-"

"-Orally?" Harold barked out.

Everyone turned to glare at him.

"Rude, Harold," John admonished.

"Anyway, John," Amal said, looking back at the other man, "you can have a half of my sandwich if you don't mind blackberry jam and turkey."

Sarah grimaced, "Ugh."

"Philistine," he retorted sharply.

"Love blackberry jam. Thanks Amal. Sure you won't be too hungry?"

"Not in the least. Had an omelet this morning, rather filling," he explained, cutting the sandwich in half and handing it to John.

As he took a bite his mind wandered off to Mary. She had called earlier to announce her arrival in Edinburgh, and to remind him of the left over casserole on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. He wondered if Cecil was there still. If they'd kipped together over night at an Inn along the way. He frowned inwardly.

Just then, interrupting his ponderings, John's phone, the secondary one Sherlock had provided, vibrated from within his trouser pocket. He flipped it out curiously.

_Coming by yours when you're off work. –SH_

Well then. John just barely resisted blowing a sigh of relief. This would get his mind off Mary. And apparently he was needed after all.

…

John checked his watch for the umpteenth time as he sat in his living room languishing with anxiety. The telly blared, muted in the background, with Indiana Jones cautiously navigating through a booby-trapped black cave. He jumped out of the way grabbing the slim torso of his heavy-bosomed companion.

Still no sign of Sherlock.

"John."

"Sherlock! What in-" John shouted, flipping around, nearly tumbling gracelessly from his seat.

"Close the blinds, will you?"

"Er…what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes quickly racing across the room pulling down the blinds and slanting them down, dimming the room. He snatched up the remote and shut off the telly.

John glanced up in alarm at his rather haggard companion, taking in his gaunt face and bloodshot eyes.

As if answering his thoughts the man nodded, "Yes. I've put you in danger just by me being here. I apologize profusely."

"What are you afraid of?" John queried with barely masked alarm in his tone. He felt the rise of adrenaline wash through his system, and he sat up straighter in his chair.

"Sniper rifles."

John caught a glimpse of the man's bloodied knuckles and frowned.

"How did you get in?"

"Same way I plan on getting back out," Sherlock retorted.

"Is Mrs. Watson in?"

"Nope. Out of town, but Sherlock-"

"Excellent. Then that makes it easier for me to propose a bit of a holiday for the two of us."

John flushed. (What?)

"Where?"

"Anywhere!"

"But-"

"No time."

John frowned, "Then this is a case?"

"Can't explain now. All will be clear later. I've booked you plane tickets under an alias for tomorrow at 5:00 a.m. I've your entire itinerary mapped. Follow it precisely, to the letter, John. I'll meet up with you at the airport."

"But-"

He pulled a bag out from inside his coat, "Oh. Here's your disguise."

John gaped awkwardly as Sherlock raced back out the way he came, and John jumped up following the man, watching as he leapt from his window down a fire escape round back of the apartment complex.

John looked down wonderingly at the ticket reservations in his hand. No sign of where he was supposed to be going off to until he traded them in at the gate. Strange, that.

He pulled out a very sharp Armani suit, Prada shades and grinned before he saw, at the bottom of the bag, a shaggy ginger wig.

John groaned.

…

Sure enough, the following morning, crack of dawn, he padded down the steps with his luggage and hopped into the cab waiting out front.

In a roundabout way, he idly mused what the hell he was getting himself into and if he should call Mary. All thoughts vanished as the cab peeled away, burning rubber.

(What the-)

Ah. Not a typical cabbie then. The deeply tanned, grisly bearded man nodded to him grinning, "Friend of Sherlock's."

John glanced warily out the back window and sure enough, they were being followed.

"Don't worry. We'll lose them on the freeway."

"You're American," John stated.

"Wisconsin born and bred. Used to race up in Kiel back in the day, nice open farmland. Wide open roads and a good ol' cop radar detector."

They careened precariously around yet another corner, and though belted in, John's body slammed against the car door, head smacking against the window.

"Had no idea cabs had such a tight turning radius," John muttered, rubbing his head and righting the ridiculous red mop.

"Not your typical cab, buddy. Got this baby vamped up in the shop with a nice V12 under the hood."

"Um. Right…"

"Yup. Did some mechanics for a bit there before heading off to Hollywood. Stunt driver by trade. Your man Holmes got me out of some trouble and I owed him one," the man smirked at him in the rearview, "Agreed to come over and help him out. Looks like yer all in some trouble, eh?"

"Eh," John agreed.

…

Transferred off to an assortment of even stranger characters, whom, with equal expediency seemed to manage to lose the pursuers, John was now utterly baffled as he arrived at Heathrow. He looked around frantically for a sign of Sherlock, and saw neither hide nor hair. With similar fear, as he made his way through the terminal, he darted his glance about to make sure he wasn't being followed.

Now at the gate, with a last look around, still, no Sherlock. At last, he was pressed to board the plane, which was apparently taking him to Vienna.

As John took his seat, he felt awash with anxiety clutching the vague instructions in his hand. Everything was dim beneath his shades, but he decided, for safety's sake to heed Sherlock's warning, and keep to the disguise.

An elderly Italian priest was aboard, blocking the aisle, painfully attempting to explain something or another to a befuddled flight attendant, neither understanding the other's language.

John glanced out the window as the Plane lifted off from the tarmac. The trees and buildings below miniaturizing as they rapidly gained elevation.

Suddenly, the old man plopped beside him in his seat, looking for all the world wearier than John felt himself.

He shifted over slightly, to give the taller man room as he shuffled his knees over against the seat in front of him.

"John, really?" the man chastised, turning to him, "No good morning?"

John gaped in astonishment as the crinkled face spread into a broad grin, pale blue eyes sparkling brightly beneath a heavily drooped brow.

"What-"

"Shh," Sherlock hushed leaning in toward John, "Look."

John followed his companion's gaze up to a small man with short black hair, clad in a tweed sports coat and wire-rimmed spectacles. He looked like any other young scholarly, Oxford-type professor, but John instantly recognized the other man as Jim. He shuddered inwardly.

"As you can clearly see, in spite of my careful precautions and all M15 intelligence ops, we've just narrowly been missed."

"But he's on the-"

"-He hasn't yet recognized us. We'll keep it that way, if you follow my lead."

"Why can't we just contact the authorities and have the plane landed here and now, get him taken into custody?"

"Not so simple. It's impossible to prove anything on him. His record's pristine and he's laid many a false trail. Since no one has actually seen him but the two of us, it's all circumstantial. He'll get away."

"Fuck," John cursed.

"Indeed," he whispered, "Have you seen today's post?"

Sherlock flipped open his phone and passed it over to John.

"Bloody hell! He set your flat on fire!"

"His agent just barely missed being apprehended, and the Yard is on the prowl. Good thing I sent our lovely landlady out to visit her nephew in Brixton yesterday."

John exhaled nervously.

"You can see how dead set he is on nabbing me. Wants to do it himself. Won't trust his agents."

"It's personal."

Sherlock muttered under his breath, "Extremely."

"What are we going to do?" John queried leaning forward in his seat.

"Moriarty's tracking us by our luggage. I've arranged two fares to Norway. But instead we'll hop a train to Belgium, where we'll wait for two nights before heading off to Spain. But he'll see it as otherwise as our tracking tickets will lead him right to Venice."

John's head swam with the flood of information and he could barely help but spare a momentary glance in Jim's direction. He espied a Bluetooth in the man's ear. A sudden, damning realization hit, like a punch to the gut.

"What makes you think he doesn't have us bugged right now as we speak?"

Sherlock smirked, quickly typing something on his phone. He passed it over to John:

_All the locations you've just been informed of are false_.

"But the formatted idea of it all is yet intact. So if he is listening in, he won't know exactly what's what."

This was getting ridiculously complicated, but nevertheless, John put his faith in his brilliant companion, hoping beyond hope, that this would work, and they'd somehow manage to escape the man with their lives and limbs intact.

…

As they hopped about from one destination to the next, shaking off Moriarty, John was absolutely exhausted. They had caught four different flights in the last 24 hours, and he'd barely drift off uncomfortably in his seat before the pilot would awaken him with an announcement of their landing. Sherlock, meanwhile, seemed to be busily ticking away the time by studying various travel logs and occasionally perusing through the skymall ads. Once or twice he'd remark about the absurdity of this or that, snort impatiently and attempt to engage Watson in conversation.

As they landed in their final port, John barely knew where they even were until he heard the a couple arguing in French at the gate. 'Bienvenue a La Ville de Romantisme!' blared a travel brochure the flight attendant handed him.

"Paris," Sherlock quipped, darting a quick sideways glance at John.

(Great. Just great.)

"We can take the rest of day for leisure, spend a night, and then we fly at 9:00 a.m. At the moment he thinks we're in Italy."

John exhaled, "Right. Then what?"

"Off to Brussels."

John rolled his eyes and the other man had the nerve to grin.

"And now without our suitcases, I have no change of clothes. No toothbrush, nothing."

"Please, John. You didn't think I'd plan that out in advance?"

John furrowed his brow and looked at his companion still dressed as the elderly priest, "How do you mean?"

Sherlock shrugged, "They have fine shopping here, and I may have a credit card or two. Or three." He smirked as he dug them out of his vest.

"Platinums?"

"Mycroft."

John groaned.

…

They got a fair share of strange looks from the cabbies and boutique clerks dressed as they were: a brit playboy and a priest.

Though exhausted, John trailed after his friend, wondering if the man's burst of energy for shopping was a bit too enthusiastic. Not for himself, rather, but for John. Before he knew it, he was in possession of no less than seven different outfits, each article being more expensive than his entire wardrobe back home combined. (Perhaps he'd too hastily decided the QE team would reject him, obviously the man had a secret flare for makeovers).They also stopped into a pharmacy and picked out the rest of their toiletries and other necessities.

Once checked into their hotel, John wearily flopped himself down onto the bed. Sherlock had apparently booked them each a separate suite, (which John was patently grateful for.)

…

The following morning, after checking in quickly with Mary, and fabricating his whereabouts (he didn't have the energy to spare to explain to her everything just yet, and there was a part of him, that wasn't sure he wanted to share the fact that he was traveling beside Sherlock), John had just barely managed to cram down a casse-croute before Sherlock herded him off to their gate. (Seriously. Did the man run on some fuel other than food?)

Their stay in Brussels was more abrupt than that of Paris, and before he knew it, he was once again, wearily dragged aboard, yet again, their next flight out to Switzerland.

John wondered when he'd ceased to be a human and somehow transmogrified into Sherlock's ragdoll. His exhaustion was such that, his limbs felt heavier than bags of sand, and his back ached from the awful seats in the airline. Once or twice he wondered why Sherlock hadn't bothered to book them into first class, particularly since, with the man's ridiculous lankiness and sharp knees digging into the seat in front of him, John couldn't help but pity the poor sap assigned there.

John awoke some time later with a sharp crick in his neck from the unusual angle he passed out in. He winced as he turned his head to the side, attempting to work it out.

Sherlock smirked reaching over, "You could have just asked for a pillow, you know."

John sighed as the man took the liberty of working out the knot, his hands warm and soothing.

God, the man had talent. He shook his head with new found relief feeling his freedom of movement return.

"I've found us a cozy spot in Meiringen. You've been quite sporting thus far. Thought we might take a few days of leisure."

"'Sporting'? Hah," John snorted, "Seriously? You mean I can sleep for more than four hours?"

Sherock grinned ironically, "Yes. John, I wouldn't want to impede upon your precious slumber."

"You say that like-" John stretched, yawning, "-like as if you never need any for yourself."

Sherlock leaned back, twining his fingers together and folding them across his chest, "As I was saying, I'd like to rest for awhile. Maybe dine out. Or dine in, whichever you'd prefer. Hike out and see the sights, with the snow melting, you'd probably like to do so. We could make it a bit of a-"

"-Holiday?" John raised an eyebrow ironically, "We're fleeing for our lives, and you want to make this a holiday."

"Moriarty is off our trail for the time being. He's not as clever as he thinks he is, and I've out deduced him. I know his next moves before he makes them," Sherlock bragged, grinning, "And yes, John. I'd like to take you on Holiday."

John flushed.

"It's only fitting as your wife is doing so-"

"-Hardly. She's taking care of a friend."

"So she says."

Anger rolled through him and John sat up, glaring at his companion, "What's that supposed to mean."

"Nothing. I didn't mean anything by it," he said wearily, waving his hand clearing off his words as some kind of misunderstanding, "I'd just like to be able to show you my gratitude. And apologize."

John's brows nearly shot to his hairline. "Thank you and Sorry in one sentence? Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock sighed, "I dragged you into this. It's only right, as your friend, that I…what I mean is…"

The man looked deeply uncomfortable and John took pity on him.

"Please. You didn't 'drag' me into anything. I was already in it from the start."

"Yes, because I took you in as my flat mate, and let you into my work."

John shook his head, "That's not what I mean. As I've said a million times before, I'm not an idiot. I knew what I was getting into when I signed up. And I'm not sorry for any of it. I wouldn't take back a single second."

The man frowned crossly, "You and I both know, John, that because of me, you're life is an incredible amount of jeopardy. Second only to my own at this very moment."

"Sherlock," John sighed dragging a hand down his face, "If I was going to be running from a madman beside anyone, I'm glad it's you. And even if I weren't in 'jeopardy' of being strapped down with another coat of semtex, or being blown up, or shot down in the middle of a fourway, or crushed by a piano falling out from a window-" Sherlock matched John's grin, "-I'd still be here. There's nothing in this world that could keep me from helping you in any way that I am able."

John glanced over at his companion and studied his warm, soft look, almost taken aback. He looked strange then. as if some sort of inner weariness had finally taken hold- so alien to the man, that John couldn't help but recall Mycroft's words.

" _He's in love with you."_

John felt once again, a pang in his chest as he looked back out the window at the passing haze of thick, white clouds.

…

For a peaceful week, as if pulled from some kind of idyllic travel brochure, they settled into a comfort of sorts in which breathing became easier. Interlaken was in one word, lovely. Surrounded by rolling valleys where the green was beginning to surface and steep mountain passes where the trails were still entrenched in the thick of winter, lay the rustic town of Meiringen, where just out of the cusp of the tourist spots the two had taken lodge.

The tension, panic, and the chase waned into a sort of background din, yet still, Sherlock seemed to never forget the shadow that lingered behind, ever-present and foreboding. John would catch his companion, even as they walked along, darting short, scrutinizing glances all around, ever wary, ever vigilant.

Every night for the past few days, as John would settle in after stoking the flame in the modest old hearth, he would watch Sherlock surveying Googlemap on his laptop (it was amazing they were even able to receive service out in these parts, so out of the main town as they were), and researching various dossiers sent over by the Yard. In his hand was a red pen, and he would scribble over a drawing he'd created of a map that resembled a web; scratching out this or that name and replacing it with another, working something out in his head, that John could barely grasp the enormity of.

Afterward, the man would retire his work, get up with a stretch and settle in a chair beside John, and they'd share a drink and not speak.

Few words had to be iterated, for John to know, in these moments, what they meant to each other.

What warmed him to the edges, but could not be expressed with words or touch, only sight and presence alone. Each desperately aware of that last wall between them that could not be breached.

Their rooms were separate but adjoined by a single door, which glared mockingly at John as he lay in bed, wishing desperately he could stop himself from wanting to go through.

It was as if London was some story of another time, and all friends and family, acquaintances and associates ceased to be real, and John ached wanting it to be so.

He could almost in way, feel it through the door; the silent tug of Sherlock's pulling back. Like a single, translucent thread between them, wrapping itself around his heart.

…

The following day, the two men made for a casual stroll up a hiker path, Sherlock taking the lead, John close behind. The man had barely looked up from his cell as he chattered away pointing out this or that particular site, and like some sort of bonified, self-designated tour-guide he speedily chirped out information.

"You know, I appreciate the tour Sherlock. But you could look up once or twice. Some things can be just as interesting without constantly citing off bits from Wikipedia."

Sherlock looked back at John with an expression of bafflement, as if this simply hadn't occurred to him.

John grinned, "Mountains looks nicer in reality than off a a street level view of Googlemap."

"Point taken."

As they continued along John inhaled deeply the crisp mountain air, and felt himself infused with an inner, Zen-like tranquility. The sky over the horizon, saturated with orange cascaded down among them, catching reflectively off his companion's sleek jet-black curls. Distracted as he was as they tread up the path, John suddenly caught his toe on a rock and stumbled forward into the other man. Sherlock, reflexively, whipped around and steadied John.

For a moment, that stood utterly still in time, they were far, far too close.

Sherlock's lips just nearly brushed John's own when he came to, and he pulled himself back, out from the other man's arms.

The moment dissipated, and Sherlock steeled himself, turning back around.

"Clumsy."

"Shut it."

…

Yet again, keeping to their routine, John, with his stocking feet up on the sofa, read quietly as Sherlock did whatever he was doing, when he felt a sharp pang of hunger.

Fortunately he recalled their innkeeper, Peter Steiler, a uniquely hospitable chap, with an impeccable fluency for the English language; whom had, earlier that morning suggested to John an excellent place for dining at the Schloss Hunigen.

Sherlock seemed troubled more than usual as he stared at his phone. Quickly, he typed something into it.

John felt the rolling of his stomach yet again and cleared his throat, "Supper?"

The man looked up distractedly from his cell, and glanced at John with a baffled expression, as if the notion of 'supper' were foreign to him, "Oh. Yes."

John brought up the restaurant and Sherlock accommodatingly assented.

Sherlock rose slowly from his chair and followed John out the door.

…

John tucked into his zurcher geschnetzeltes with ardour, savouring the rich creamy sauce and perfect mushrooms and tender veal.

"John."

He looked up at the sound of his name, having been uttered with a strange softness, where Sherlock gazed at him from across the table with a reticent expression.

"Mm?" Politely, he swallowed his mouthful, "Yes?"

"These past few days…" Sherlock all but whispered, uncharacteristically timid, "John, I've… missed you."

The man looked absolutely done in at having said so, and John furrowed his brow in confusion.

"I'm er… right here?"

The man quirked a grin, then fell back to a subtle expression of serious intensity, laying down his fork carefully beside his plate.

"What I mean is of little literality."

Sherlock's poignant, leveling look took John off guard.

"I… see. I think."

His supper seemed suddenly less interesting than it had.

"Having you here. It's as if you never left."

('Baker Street'. 'Me'.) But not that any of that needed to be spoken to complete the meaning, for John had wholly grasped it.

Damn. Once again, Sherlock was backtracking, all but tearing up their previous agreement.

John sighed as he replayed the candid admission. Seriously Mycroft gave his brother very little credit. It seemed as if the man were perfectly capable of articulating his emotions in spite of what others thought.

And God. What emotions they implied.

With John's lack of response, his companion seemed to inwardly deflate. Just so slightly, it was nearly imperceptible but John had caught it.

"Sherlock I-"

"-It doesn't matter. Whatever aphoristic objection, however kindly meant, is irrelevant and very simply, accepted at this point," he sighed, "It's just, everything is so consummately diaphanous, yet impassable. It's-"

(-'painful').

"It can't be otherwise," John responded quietly, carefully.

Sherlock nodded, "As I said, understood."

John reached out across the table before he could stop himself and snatched Sherlock's hand in his own and for a split second, he stared at their hands almost stunned he'd done so.

He looked back up at the sharp intake of breath from his companion and the other diners simply faded immaterially into the periphery.

"John-"

"-No. Please. Hear me out."

He breathed out a sigh that gust across the table.

"I care for you as any man could for another. I know. It seems like it's not enough. But you are, and always will be, my friend. And that," he breathed, shoving down the searing ache, "Has to be enough."

But what an inspired obfuscation that was. Yet John, inhibited as he was, utterly hindered by his own sense of moral absolution, had no other choice than to redraw out the line, though it was impossible to believe it an entity worthy of protection; It would be, he despairingly knew, the line that would inevitably bisect the one between them, completing the severance.

He released his grip, but instead of recoiling with hurt, Sherlock's hand lingered momentarily before he pulled it back into his lap.

After a time, Sherlock glanced back up at John, meeting his gaze with a tremulous, but steadfast one of his own, "Then it will be."

They fell into silence.

Whatever it was about that moment, Sherlock had seemed to draw into himself, and something like an inward resolve conveyed itself outward in its wake.

…

The two men trekked out to Reichenbach that day, intending to take in the sights before heading back into town.

John gazed over the jutting edge of the abyss, feeling a humbling remove from reality as he judged the treacherous magnitude of the canyon's depth at nearly 250 meters down, like some kind of magnificent vortex into the earth.

"We walked to the brink and we looked it in the face," Sherlock's words, barely a whispered breath, were nearly carried away by the deafening roar of the falls crashing below.

The significance of his utterance was staggering, and cut John to the core. There could be no appropriate response.

He watched as the white, foaming mouth swallowed the water rushing it back out again along the sharp, jagged rocks below and sighed wearily.

John stepped back from the ledge, glancing across at his companion, whom studied him with an expression of inexorable stoicism.

"It's all there John," he stated with crisp, concise conviction, "And I'm on the precipice of it."

His cryptic declaration rung with a troublingly fatalistic tone and John frowned, "Precipice of what? I mean other than literally on the edge of the cliff?"

Sherlock's eyes at that moment seemed piercing and ancient, "What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide."

Within, he seemed to grow a hundredfold, exultant and self-validated, "John, you are the best man I know."

John shrank back warily, with an urgent yearning to grab the man away from the edge, both literally and metaphorically.

Sherlock dropped back his head and laughed, "Please, John don't look at me like that, I'm not about to leap off the cliff."

John exhaled, his heart beating rapidly within his chest.

"Never can be sure with you," he granted Sherlock a tentative grin, "As generous as the sentiment might be, and I appreciate it, why say it now, and why wax philosophic? Sounds like you're writing up your epitaph."

Sherlock gazed gently at his friend, "Because, I shouldn't like to think we would ever leave words unsaid between us."

John frowned, "Again, this sounds like some kind of parting speech, what are you trying to tell me?"

The man chuckled softly, again, utterly out of character, "Did you know, John, that just below the waterfall is a pitted out gorge formed by kinetic energy thrust forward by the force of the water?"

"Another Wiki fact, Sherlock?" John raised his eyebrow with wry amusement.

His eyes glazed over almost dreamily, "It's as if the whole world is set to cave itself inward, an implosion of profound majesty."

"Alright, I think that's enough wisdom for one day. I think we-"

"-Doctor Watson!" A voice cried out.

John glanced back, startled, as a young man came running toward them.

Huffing, out of breath, the man leaned down bracing his hands upon his knees, "Please!" he begged in broken English, "Peter. He gave me to tell you, a cenadwri, er…dispatch. Gwneud dod. Er… you to come! Emergence!"

John took the scribbled out message, and sure enough it bore the mark of the lodge:

Dr. Watson – Medical emergency. A guest has suffered a poisoning/allergic reaction, cause unverified. Injected her with Epinephrine, and she's seizing. Please come at soonest convenience. The ambulance is 20 minutes out. –Peter

John stared at the letter momentarily paralyzed before action took hold commanding him to take reign. He glanced up warily at his friend taken aback by the succinct gleam in his eye. The way he looked at John for just a fleeting second, was in a breath,  _tender_. As if he were, for all the world, memorizing him, imprinting his image beyond his retinas, burning him there eternally. At that moment, John felt a strange misgiving, leaving the man behind.

"Go!" Sherlock demanded, barking out the order in the form of a drill sergeant.

He complied immediately, following the lad back down the hill, running at near break neck speed. And at last, as if compelled by some invisible thread he turned back just once, to look at the far off figure of his friend, a small, blurred silhouette against the falls. Out of the corner of his eye he imagined he saw another figure darting quickly around from the other side, but couldn't be sure of it.

"Come!" The lad beckoned with wide, panicked eyes, "We hurry!"

As soon as they approached, the young man ran off shouting something or another unintelligibly about hailing forth the ambulance(?) And John rushed into the Inn and up to the desk.

"Peter! Where is he!" John panted clutching his chest, lungs depleted from running through the thin air of the Alps, "Where is she?"

The harassed looking liaison quickly dialed for the Inn keeper, and he came down with an expression of astonished bewildered as he took in the other man's state.

"John, is everything alright?"

John's heart turned to lead.

"The woman! Is she alright? You sent for me?"

The frown on the other man's face deepened and he furrowed his brow, "Woman? I… sent for you?"

John huffed out an anxious breath, fear gripping him from within, "You mean you didn't write this?"

He held out the missive. "I didn't," he confirmed, shaking his head.

"But it has the Inn's stamp on it!" John stammered.

The man frowned, "It must have been that strange Irish sounding fellow. Said he was an Englishman, though- He came in after you had gone. He said-"

Vision swimming, John could not wait for explanations. He darted back out frantic with mixed horror and despair. Making back up the path from which he'd so recently descended, he squinted, praying to see the form of his companion atop the hill.

As he neared, he slowed, his leg screaming it's agony, seeing not a soul in site.

"Sherlock!" He shouted out into the roaring canyon. It echoed back until it faded, with no response.

John stood for a moment in the place just twenty-five minutes before, where he'd been beside his friend.

Something sparkled catching a glint of the sun through the clear, cloudless sky. He immediately recognized Sherlock's phone, and picked it up, his gut clenching with trepidation.

He unlocked the screen and saw, opened, a text, unsent, addressed to him.

[My Dear John, By the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, whom awaits this, our last discussion, I have been allowed to write to you these, my last words. (Yes, I know you cringe at the irony, really John, that jibe you made about me composing my epitaph was very clever of you. But then, you've always been cleverer than I've given credit for.) I was convinced the letter was a hoax, manufactured to draw you away at the pinnacle of this inevitable confrontation. It brings me relief to know of your safety from this matter. Send off to Lestrade the jump drive in the desk back in our rooms at the Inn. The evidence therein contains all he'll need to convict Moriarty's web of associates. To my brother, I've already handed off my last will and testament allocating my worldly possessions. But none of them matter one whit, as the one I'm sorest to lose, is my dearest friend. Give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dearest John (you, as the heart that beats within me), very sincerely yours, Sherlock]

…

 

Expect for part 3 we'll get back to some of the light-hearted humour and hopefully conclude happily. The process of getting there might be a bit rough, fair warning. (Thanks friends for sticking by!)

 


	3. Chapter 3

A World Upended (Part 3) GRAND FINALE!

Author: Sfumatosoup

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Genre: Angst/Romance/Adventure/Humour

Words: I don't even know. Feels like one bazillion.

Disclaimer: I do not own. All Gatiss and Moffat and Doyle. No plan to profit.

Rating: Mature. 

Warning: Spoilers for all BBC eps in season 1 as well as for canon FINA, SIGN and EMPT. All main characters and even one or two OC's. Not brit-picked and self-beta'd so if you see errors or things that need to be changed please let me know.

Summary: PART 3: John mourns Sherlock. (Sherlock, of course, returns very much alive). John refuses to allow himself to try for a relationship with his companion on the grounds that it is simply not meant to be, nor very wise. Thus, he attempts various methods of finding the right partner.

…----

John moved through the next few days in a sort of trance, mechanically following Sherlock's final instruction and sending Lestrade the jump drive.

He complied with the Swiss Officials as they debriefed him on the events at Reichenbach and a team sent down found the mangled remains of Moriarty strewn over the jagged rocks, washed ashore. Yet still, no trace of Sherlock.

John was unable to process the recent events, though they played themselves out repetitively linear within his mind.

In a haze, he was escorted back to London. Case closed. Final page of the final chapter, and he was staring at the back cover as if it would magically flip itself around and reopen to the part where 'Once Upon a Time' began.

John barely recognized himself: the haunted, white faced, shadow of the man that stared back at him in the side view mirror of the cab as it pulled up in front of his still vacant apartment.

Somehow, he moved himself from his seat, paid his fare, and walked up the steps. Before heading inside, John checked his mail, pulling out a thick packet addressed from Edinburgh.

 _What now?_  He wondered.

At last inside, John dropped himself into a seat at the dining room table and slowly withdrew the Divorce papers. He stared at them dumbly, mute with a sort of apathetic acceptance. Unfolding the note that lay on top, he recognized Mary's characteristic, slanting, looped script:

[John, I know this must come— not as a shock to you, but as rather abrupt, since we haven't talked of it outright. I've felt, in these past few months, our attachment waning between us. The spark, if there ever was any, was solely one sided. I've loved you as much as you were willing to allow for, but it's become evident to me, of late, that it will never be reciprocated enough for me to settle for. That this union we've committed to, will never work for us.

The past few weeks, here, at home, I've taken this all into consideration and as we've been unable to keep in regular contact, of course, as much due to my schedule as to your responsibility filling your duty to your friend, we've been unable to have the conversation we've needed to have.

I have a confession to make, and I'm truly sorry for it, that it hasn't been made clear before now-]

John stopped reading. Carefully, slowly, he folded it up, and tore it in two.

Walking into the kitchen, he turned on the burner and dropped the letter down, watching it flare into an instantaneous orange ball swallowed by the flames, dwindling to ash and then… to nothing at all.

…

The 5 Steps of the Kubler Ross Grieving Process:

Denial:

a.) John bolted up from his bed gasping; the image of Sherlock tumbling down, locked in duel with Moriarty, as he fell to the rocks below.

Just a dream. A nightmare. Nothing more. Nothing real.

b.) It was just a ruse. John checked his phone for the umpteenth time with utter frustration. How completely typical of Sherlock to be so inconsiderate. Still, no missed calls or texts.

c.) As John lazily watched the telly, he kept flicking his eyes up toward the door, expecting, that any second now, Sherlock would come strolling in with a broad grin. "Gotcha!" he'd say, and John would groan.

d.) John pictured the Detective as he chased after the rogue agents the Yard had somehow missed, and was bloody sore to think he was being left out of the fun. No fair, that.

The following morning, John opened the door to find Mycroft. The man said something or another which John failed to grasp the import of— about how he was take whatever he needed from 221B. As 'Executor of the Estate'(or so he claimed to be; completely out of context with John's current mindset), he'd taken it upon himself to collect that, for John, which surely he found proper to have disposed of into his care. Including various textbooks, the man's laptop (though he'd need the password), and other various odds and ends. John frowned with confusion.

Why was Sherlock getting rid of his stuff? What was he supposed to do with it?

Mrs. Hudson ran out the door at his arrival, sweeping him into a tight embrace that nearly choked the wind out of him. She was sobbing and muttering something about how 'sorry' she was. John patted her on the back consolingly.

Mycroft unlocked the door to the flat and let John in, nodding to him, and taking off.

John stood there, taking in the cluttered room, utterly baffled. Slowly, he lowered himself onto the man's sofa, and sat for a time, just looking around.

The man's laptop, and suitcase crammed with his belongings sat near the entrance.

He found himself glancing up to the mantle where sat the skull, and a knife sticking through a tattered missive. On the table beside him, was an ancient, heavy tome, which, upon it was Sherlock's Persian slipper in which he kept his nicotine patches. Beside this, sat his Morocco case, where John knew, he'd once kept hypodermic needles, (from the days sans John, when he'd regularly suppress his boredom with injections of a seven percent solution of diluted cocaine.)

The couch, the springs worn in from years of abuse; from Sherlock just plopping himself down with cavalier melodrama, bore signs of wear at the right arm, where the man regularly leaned his sharp elbow, resting his head into his hand as he'd engage in discussion with John. If the muscles in his face had been functional, he would have been grinning as looked overhead, behind him at the bullet-holed-outlined, yellow-painted smiley-face ruining Mrs. Hudson's stylishly gothic-nouveau wall paper. (Which he'd often found reminded him of the wall paper from that one movie— ' _Lucky Number Sleven' was it?_ )

After a time, he rose and walked into the kitchen. John opened the fridge and found, to his dismay, that it had been entirely emptied and scoured out. No jars of miscellaneous grotesquery, no plates with decapitated heads, no milk gone sour.

He shut it again, with an unsettling twinge. Because why would it be empty?

Heading back into the sitting room, John pulled down from the shelf of disorganized textbooks, files and crammed in, yellowing newspapers, a specific journal. A log Sherlock had kept, (preferring this to a typed in database), in which he'd entered, with messy, flaring scrawl, his collections of personal deductions and self-made dossier's of various associates, clients and convicts.

John flipped to the 'W' section, until he found his name. He'd always been curious, and Sherlock was apparently not here to object.

It seemed, through the course of the past year and a half, the man had, with some regularity, continued to update the information—obvious, as the script and pen, and weight of line changed periodically throughout the description.

['Dr. Watson, John Hamish, M.D.' Flat-mate. Colleague, (friend?): Birth: July 7, 1976. Late of the Army Medical Dept., Pensioned. Service: 2 terms: Injury discharge. (Shoulder: nerve damage where bullet grazed subclavian artery, Leg: Limp-psychosomatic, PTSD manifestations opposing technical def. ex: Calm under duress. Tremor in hand and limp exacerbated only by acute emotion. Depression-moderate, circumstantial.) : H/172.72 cm, W/varying, Eyes/Blue, Hair/Blonde.

Claims heterosexuality (debatable.). Shot a man for me. Insists I take better care of self (shows concern for my welfare). Assimilated self into my work - (keeps blog of. See:www,johnwatsonblog,co,uk

Consistently invalidates previous conclusions I've based on character (Further study required). Distracting. Methodically slow with deduction/dually/intuitively competent. Persists defiantly to accept instinctual ability to observe (aggravating). Loyal. Willing to serve as protection at cost to self. Decisive physiological response to his presence (immense). Possible reciprocation thereof (?) Must test theory (formula for extraction of this fact proven successful; Obtained and verified evidence. Conclusion: Bisexual). Instills within me an impermissible sense of irrationality-unable to eradicate (and unwilling evidently). More important than oxygen, (illogical, yet sustained and accepted.)]

John grinned. It almost read like he'd been some kind of science experiment.

As if compelled, though he'd never done so before, he found himself entering into Sherlock's room.

In a sense, it felt overly intimate. Like trespassing into forbidden territory and John recalled in his youth, sneaking into Harry's room. Inevitably, failing at stealth and too guileless to conceal his actions, she'd wrestle him down, smacking him until he was forced to confess.

Unlike the rest of the flat, and much to John's astonishment, it was tidy. The closet, lined with his shirts and jackets and trousers were like soldiers in form. His bed was made, though lacked the stiff corners as John was able to form; the type of bed you could bounce a coin off of.

He sat down upon the edge finding himself on some sort of lump. Curiously, he pulled back the covers and found beneath him, his striped jumper.

Anger:

As he held the jumper in his hands, John felt suddenly overcome by a sense of sweeping horror and gripping realization.

A wrathful war of bitter rage washed through him, cleansing him of the numbness. Eating him, burning him from within to charred remains. It swept across and multiplied itself.

Firstly, it was at Sherlock:

(Fuck) The  _bastard._

How dare he abandon him. Leave him here alone, isolated and languishing. How could he have sent him away, full well knowing John could have helped, could have saved him?

Secondly, it was at himself:

Those bloody cryptic words had been a farewell. And John should have seen right away that the letter was a hoax. He knew there'd been something not right about it.  _Fuck._  How had he been so blind? So stupid? Why had he neglected his God-given intuition?

Thirdly, it was at Moriarty:

(Fucker!) If he wasn't dead he'd kill him again.

Fourthly, it was at Mycroft:

He was sure the man new beforehand, especially after Sherlock had allocated him to Executor of Estate. Why didn't he stop him? Have M15 or M16 out after Jim instead? He let his own Goddamned brother foolishly martyr himself.

Fifthly, it was at Scotland Yard:

Bloody incompetents. If they had only done their jobs correctly in the first place, Sherlock would never have been forced to intercede.

And lastly, John brought it all back around again:

In a way, he couldn't help but wonder if the man would've been so readily willing to sacrifice himself if John had just allowed himself to give in to what he knew was an inevitable force, pushing them together. He was, without doubt his other half, and now, torn in two, he would never again be complete.

If he'd had known those days in Meiringen would be their last he would've done everything different. Anguish swam through him and he clenched his fists until his knuckles were white.

He was so  _fucking stupid._  It could've been different. Sherlock would've let him stay, and side by side, like brothers in arms, (or lovers in arms), like Trojan soldiers of legend, they would have defended each other to the death.

Bargaining:

He gasped out desperately, and the sound echoed off the walls of the room, audible to John's ears alone.

He'd give anything if Sherlock would just walk through the door at this very second. Do anything to have him back.

John would  _give_  anything the man would  _ask_  of him; be anything he wanted him to be.

John glared at the door willing it to open and clutched his phone in his hand, willing it to ring.

Depression:

But the door never opened and the phone never rang.

The air pulled itself from his lungs and his chest felt weighted down by bricks, suddenly unable to breathe, paralyzed with overwhelming, crushing despair.

Never again would John see those slender, dexterous hands, those piercing intelligent eyes made of translucent, other-worldly sky material.

Nor would he see those smirking lips, from which was spoken a voice; rich and velvety as they pronounced with brutal logic and cutting criticism, wry witticisms and impish humour.

Nor again would he hear articulated, for his sole benefit, words said of his honest regard for John.

He would be unable to taste him, breathe him in, smell him, feel him. Run his hands through that mess of hair.

John collapsed back onto the man's bed, ensconced within his essence, like falling back into the phantom; incorporeal, intangible, but still ever present. It had been so recent, his scent still lingered. That spice, that unique scent utterly of his own, the odourless shampoo, the chemicals, the detergent.

Surely, it was as if Sisyphus' boulder had gained in mass; and rolled down with enormous force of gravity, crushing him beneath.

Acceptance:

And so, John realized, Sherlock Holmes would not be walking through that door ever again.

His marriage was secondary, forgotten and inconsequential in the profound wake of his pain at losing Sherlock and now, inside, was a vacancy sign hanging on the door knob of a condemned house that would never again be habitable.

He left without taking a thing.

…

John had awoken to the cracking of rolling thunder during the breaking hours of the morning. Rain pattered against his window, and John watched as 4 a.m. turned to 5 and then 6, the storm swiftly drifting south, the curtain of nightfall giving way to the bright pink-orange of a clear dawn.

The rays shone through his blinds cascading in stripes across his bed, and he could hear the stirrings of his neighbors in the apartments above and beside. Outside, engines turned on, and the day began.

The solemn service drew a larger crowd than he'd expected, faces John barely recognized here to show their sorrow for the parting of a man, whom had apparently touched many lives.

John resignedly shook many hands and accepted condolences from his coworkers and friends and clients he'd been on cases with, feeling a bit of discomfort, as if he were some bereaved, widowed spouse.

He was supposed to speak, expected to really, and had, the night before, arranged a sort of tribute. It seemed deficient somehow. There were no words to convey the depth of his loss.

As he stood before them, he felt suddenly overwhelmed by the sea of strangers.

None of them had truly known Sherlock. Not as he had. Right. He was supposed to speak. He shook himself from his paralysis and cleared his throat.

"Sherlock Holmes. Was… he was-" his voice broke.

A murmuring of whispers fell over the room and John was awash with relief as Mycroft took helm, excusing him.

He wanted so much, to be able to sit back down among them and pay homage to his friend's memory by listening to the speeches, but something instead, led him to wander outside.

As soon as the door to the back of the chapel shut, he slunk down, gasping. Bowing his head down between his knees inhaling deeply; the breaths coming short and harsh. Sensing a figure come beside him, he glanced up.

Harry sat down beside him, not reaching out to comfort him nor offering trite platitudes, coddling or words of wisdom.

Utterly grateful he felt, just then, that she was the only one witness to his hyperventilating panic as he sought to harness back his emotions.

Fortunately, Harry understood perfectly his grieving was a private matter and that any demonstrative acts of sympathy would be unwelcome. If not rejected outright.

The two had always handled their grief similarly, unwilling to relinquish control in front of others.

(Though her grief typically expressed itself with falling prey to substance, and John— practiced the fine art of suppression by busying himself with tidying or throwing himself into work.)

But now, in this moment…

Her simple, quiet presence, was in itself, the greater of comforts.

…

Of course, as there was no body, there was no need to disturb the earth. Instead, laid into the ground was a modest plaque; an appropriate commemoration.

(Sherlock, though occasionally outrageous as he was, loathed garishness.)

As the smaller crowd of family and friends dispersed, Mary walked up beside him and grasped his hand. He swallowed thickly as he turned to look at his estranged wife.

"Mary."

"John," she spoke softly pulling him into an embrace, "I'm so sorry."

The 'sorry' was full of meaning. And John knew it bespoke of more than a simple offering of condolence, but one of sorrow for their failed marriage.

He couldn't respond.

He glanced up to see, down off by the gates, a man join beside Mary, wrapping a comforting arm around her and John was unable to feel resentment. He'd deliver the signed papers in the morning.

As he stood before the stone, Amal approached from behind.

"John, if you need to, you know you can always come to me. For anything. If you need to talk, or… not talk. Either way, I'm here for you."

He nodded his thanks.

And then, the last of the lingerers cleared and only he and Mycroft remained.

They stood side by side, silent for a time before Mycroft spoke.

"He would never have left you had he felt he had any other option."

He gave John a meaningful look and parted.

The self-blame grew tight in John's chest, and he felt just then, very,  _very cold._

…

He wasn't sure how long he stood, but the bright blue sky overhead grew crisp and dim with the oncoming evening.

What was there to say? Whatever speech he'd composed had been shallow, wouldn't serve to justify.

His mind replayed the two of them, peering out at the falls, Sherlock's expression serene.

"'I shouldn't like to think we ever left words unsaid between us,'" John spoke aloud, breaking through the surrounding silence, the audibility of his voice startlingly clear.

But there had never been words invented to accurately convey the caliber and complexity of feeling he'd engendered for the man, thus he fell silent once more, knowing this would be enough.

…

Mary had known better than to prolong their marriage by offering to remain with John. Though he knew she'd been tempted to do so, for she was the epitome of kind, and would have put aside her own needs for the sake of caring for him, maintaining their company with the idea it might be necessary to keep him from coming to harm.

But, she had always been bright and intuitive, and knew very well that John would vehemently reject any form of sympathy she could provide.

Thus, she'd moved out and moved on sparing him the tedium of further explanation or discussion. After their (thankfully civil) divorce was finalized, John felt, to an extent, a relief of burden lifted from his shoulders.

Over the following months he'd forced himself to move on, resigned to pick up the shattered remains of his life and somehow reassemble. Put one foot in front of the other, so to speak. He was determined to push on through existence, though now it was bleak; monochromatic. There would be for him no more vibrancy or thrill, and he'd bear lesser of a purpose.

…

Coming back to work was a palliative. If drove home the sense of reality, of normalcy. Though his colleagues were initially wary, John was determined to dispel them of any notions of his fragility. (He patently shut out gossiped whispers of his 'recent divorce  _so soon_  after the loss of his friend'. Because seriously  _that_  was getting annoying and he hated what it all implied.) Thus, John made a concerted effort over the following months to appear upbeat and optimistic. Picking up where he left off with the familiar banter and carrying on more than his fair share of the patient load, his coworkers readapted to the old John (with exception to Amal, whom was too clever to be convinced of John's charade).

And so, for the most part, life went on and eventually as time will do, though unforgotten, the inward pain lessened to an extent he was able to function as before.

But in all honesty, it was a pain that had waned into numbness. John felt-  _nothing_. Everything was surface. Inconsequential. _Transport._

He remembered that time he'd looked out the window of the cab on his way home from the supper with Victor and Sherlock. (And it seemed ages ago. Or like something again from a show or story he'd once seen or read about. Often had these days, upon reflection, that past year and a half had seemed to John,  _apocryphal_ ; like a counterfeit history he'd stolen from someone else's life). Nevertheless, the reminisced analogy of the feeling was congruous: the days crept into weeks and into months and time faded into a blur— losing all meaning.

…

John sat in his office, completing out the last of the day's patient files, when Amal entered.

"Come out with me tonight."

John looked up, "Supper?"

"No, I was thinking something else. Something fun."

Furrowing his brow he leaned back, crossing his arms.

"What do you suggest then?"

Amal leveled John with a grin, "A club."

No. Not good. "I'd prefer not to-"

"John," Amal exhaled, exasperated, "You know it's been seven months since the two of us have done anything other than go out for food. And other than me, you've been completely antisocial."

John raised an incredulous eyebrow and Amal sighed.

"Right. I know. It's not as if it's not completely understandable, but you've been maintaining this act of being 'alright', and I know you've just been moping about-"

John snorted, "-So you're planning on an intervention?"

"Why not?" Amal shrugged.

"Fine," John agreed with resolve. Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible to change up routine a bit.

…

As the two got out of the cab, John looked up at the garish blinking neon sign and groaned inwardly.

"Haven't been here in ages, but they have excellent cocktails!" Amal exclaimed.

John glanced around, feeling self-consciously underdressed.

Several folks walked out of the club laughing companionably, wearing designer labels looking sleekly stylish and trendy. At least he was wearing the gray oxford and faded denims Sherlock had purchased for him back on that shopping spree in Faubourg Saint-Honore.

To his alarm, several men also came strolling out the door as they approached, seeming altogether overly familiar and even borderline intimate. John cringed.

_Well._

He glanced up at his companion. "You come here for the cocktails, huh?" he wryly jibed.

"Er," Amal blushed defensively, "It'll be a good time, John."

Rolling his eyes he followed the man in whom had graciously paid his cover.

"I can't believe you dragged me out to a  _gay_  club."

"You say that as if I'm dragging you to the vet to get fixed."

John winced.

"Alright. Maybe not as bad as that."

"That's the spirit," Amal chuckled and clapped a hand on John's back, "I'll buy you a drink. That'll ease you a bit."

John took a seat at the bar as the thumpa-thumpa of the nightclub beat its pulse. On the dance floor was a writhing mass of dancing man, many of whom were either shirtless or wearing items of clothing that were far too form-fittingly revealing. He flushed awkwardly, feeling a bit warm.

"Why of all places here?" He demanded, leveling Amal with a scrutinizing glare.

The man shrugged, grinning as he casually slid a drink down in front of him.

"Why not here? It's been practically a year since you've had any fun, John."

John glowered, burning red, "So you're trying to get me laid? You think a quick toss with a bloke will-"

"-No! No,  _please,_ " Amal laughed, holding up his hand, "Though true, you could use a good shag, I'm not saying you should. But maybe it'd be nice to let a bloke chat you up a bit, bolster your self esteem-"

"Oh, right. Because I'm some lonely, washed-up, pathetic divorcee. Got it."

Amal narrowed his eyes, "That's not at all what I'm getting at. Just relax. Let yourself have a drink or two. You've been freed for the evening from your dismal abode. So lighten up."

"Right," he muttered.

"Welcome back to the world, John," he grinned, "Oi! Sam! Two Patrons'!"

They tossed back their tequila shots and John coughed as the clear liquid burned its way down his throat.

"So are you going to dance with me or not?"

"Not."

His companion frowned.

The bass, cranked to max thrumming around them to the point where further communication became futile if one wasn't shouting. Amal turned down a few invitations and tried once again his suggestion to which John continuously declined.

Finally, eventually tiring of John's resistance to join him on the floor, he allowed himself to be escorted off by a fellow in tight black jeans and a pierced nipple.

God. (What the hell was he doing here.)

John felt entirely out of place, and his thoughts suddenly took a rather morose turn. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. He most definitely should not have come out, but now, here he was, stuck.

John ordered several more drinks, and proceeded to get himself nice and sloshed. The liquor took off the edge, and thus, he found himself feeling a bit more persuadable when Amal came out of nowhere, sidling up beside him.

His face shining with sweat and grinning broadly, he pulled John out of his seat and dragged him back out to the dance floor with him.

 _(Lord, was this awful_.)

As a rule, John loathed clubs. Hadn't gone to one since his days in Uni. His head swimming with the alcohol, he found himself getting separated from Amal, lost in the mob—most of which seemed blissed out of their minds.

"Popper?"

John glanced over at the bloke nearly pressed flush against him. He grinned at him lasciviously and held out a small pink bottle.

_Amyl Nitrite._

The  _I'm a Doctor!_ part of his brain waved its warning flag,but that other, already inebriated  _Not Giving a Fuck_  part shrugged its allowance.

Upon inhaling the vapours he was suddenly awash in ebullient warmth and dizziness. God, he felt... _good. Really Good._  Good enough that the man grinding up on him was Absolutely Fantastic. Everything was Just Great.

The crescendoing pulse of the music flooded the crowd, and John felt himself melding into it, letting himself go.

Deafened in the cacophony, lights blinkered, strobing overhead, and between the fractional instances of black, colours morphed and tunneled between the sea of swimming faces, and for a split second he saw Sherlock. John tumbled back as the hallucination flickered and vanished. He shook his head frantically trying to clear his head.

_Fucking misperceptions of reality._

John found himself pulled deeper into the thrush of mashing, sweaty bodies and someone bumped into him causing him to stumble forward.

A stranger caught him and asked if he was alright, and to John's horror, it was Sherlock. In a daze of confusion he clenched shut his eyes, reopening them to a stranger's concerned face.

John's head throbbed painfully, flooding him with sudden, horrible anguish and stabbing nausea. The phantom was literally everywhere and overwhelming.

He wrenched himself out from the crowd, staggered out the doors of the club and into the cool streets. The reviving, early spring air washed over him and he stumbled up, bracing himself against a wall. A few people passed by, barely noticing him.

Reaching into his pocket, he fumbled out his phone and dialed Amal. No response.

 _Fuck._ He tried again with no luck.

Dazed as he was, his brain refused to work. To plan. To do anything the least bit constructive to aide him.

He pinched shut his eyes and counted backwards from ten, regaining a smattering of his lost sense of equilibrium.

_Breathe._

It was impossible to do so. Drunkenly, he navigated his way through the crowded, bowing, spinning street.

A few horns blared as he crossed, and John held out a hand apologetically before he made his way to the other side.

And then, as if out of nowhere he collided into a frail, elderly bloke, bowling him over.

John blinked rapidly, filling with sudden horror as he rebalanced himself. The harassed, pained looking fellow rose irritably refusing John's proffered hand.

"Oh. Fuck. Christ, I'm so sorry. Let me-"

He stumbled awkwardly attempting to assist the man as he quickly snatched up his scattered pile of DVD's, gathering them into his arms.

The man barked at him sharply, "Leave it, you imbecile!"

John relinquished the DVD immediately as if stung.

"Moronic doped-out blighter!" He cursed out with a contemptuous snarl, irately pushing past John.

He watched as the man stormed away feeling helpless and humiliated. Another pang of stabbing nausea swam through him and John staggered into the nearby alley, littered with broken bottles and rank with rubbish and piss, heaving up his stomach's contents for all he was worth behind a dumpster. Leaning forward, he braced himself, head against the cold metal. Sobering just enough to hate himself thoroughly.

_(Christ.)_

_Never Again_.

…

"Where the hell were you?" Amal shouted out over the phone. John's head throbbed achingly and he winced.

"I tried calling-"

"Yeah, I got your bloody call just as you were hanging up you utter twat! I looked around everywhere for you! I ran out of the club expecting to find you, John, and you were just fucking gone! I was out of my mind with panic! How could you be so bloody stu-"

"Stop-" John pleaded, holding the phone out at an arms length from his tortured ear, "-I'm sorry, alright? I shouldn't have just left."

"Damn right you shouldn't-"

The doorbell rang.

"-Amal, I have to go. I'll call you back. Later." (Much later. God how he didn't want to deal with him right now. It was 9 a.m. Saturday morning, sick with the worst hangover possible and all he wanted to do was crawl back under the safety of his covers.

He tossed the phone down on the couch, and forced his aching body up out of the chair to answer the door.

(What..?-)

There stood the elderly chap from last night, wringing his hands in front of him. John's eyes widened, startled with confusion, (…how?-)

"You are surprised to see me, I imagine," the man said in a strange, croaking voice.

"Er…how did you-"

"-An Indian chap came running out in a huff from around the corner looking frantic and asking all around if anyone had seen his friend, 'a short-ish bloke in a gray button-down.' I replied I had, and he calmed. I felt rather awful for my ill treatment of you, as you had kindly offered to help me pick of my films. He directed me here. I hope you aren't too bothered by it-" he said frowning.

(God Damn Amal. What the  _hell_ was he thinking giving out his street address.  _Idiot!_ )

"-I really wished to disabuse you of thinking unkindly of me. I admit I was bit gruff-"

"-No. Please," John interjected, flushing awkwardly, "You were right to be er…upset. I was drunk. And I'm an idiot. You aren't hurt are you?"

Since it was raining and a bit cold, he stepped back and allowed the man to enter inside.

"Not in the least, my dear fellow, and I trust you are faring rather better than last evening?"

John cringed, "A small bit."

"I brought for you a bit of an apology present," he held out a DVD, "It's one of my favourites."

"'My Fair Lady'," John quirked an eyebrow with disbelief. This was getting a bit surreal.

"Yes, well I thought it might fill that hole in your collection in that DVD tower behind you."

John moved to look where the other man's gaze had settled and upon turning back around, Sherlock was standing, clear and tangible and smiling broadly, mask and wig in hand.

With a sharp intake of breath, John's vision doubled, the world swayed sideways before he collapsed.

…

For a moment, everything was a gray haze, his ears ringing. Blinking several times, all spiraled clear, and above him, supporting him against his chest, was Sherlock, looking down at him with a stunned, remorseful expression.

"John— I'm, um. I had no idea you'd be so-"

He frowned as John stared up at him disbelieving.

No. It had to be some kind of a joke. A prank.

Or a ghost?

He clenched shut his eyes, willing away this far too corporeal spectre. (God, was he still rolling from the amyl nitrite? Had it been laced with lysergic acid diethylamide?)  _Not possible._

"…John?" Sherlock's pale gray eyes peered at him pointedly, "I can assure you I'm real."

Rage boiled up, twisting within the pit of his gut and John wrenched himself away, quickly shuffling backward, out of reach.

"You utter, fucking  _bastard!_ "

Sherlock's mouth fell shut. Looking for a moment, thoroughly chastised.

"John. I'm s-" he attempted to move nearer and John recoiled, "-I had no idea you'd be so affected-"

"You!" John spat out, "Have no right to-"

"-I know. It was a bit needlessly overdramatic, I'm-"

"-No! How...How dare you! I thought you were dead, you- you let me believe you were dead! How could-"

"-John," Sherlock attempted, "I'll explain if you'd just let me-"

John stood up, shaking with fury, "-I  _mourned_  you, Sherlock. I fucking stood at your grave. I-"

"- _Please._ Just listen-" the other man exclaimed nearly begging.

"-How the hell are you alive?"

John backed himself against the wall, bracing himself, glaring at the man before him. Sherlock arose from his kneeling position and tried once again to appeal to him.

"I'm alive because I never fell in the first place, John."

(God—) The ache tore through him, and the room spun once more. He shut tight his eyes with the flood of sheer emotion.

So much anger. Hurt. Betrayal. Relief. Thrill.  _Want._

It warred against each other leaving him nearly senseless.

He yearned for it to subside, this keening, crushing desire to just run to the other man and fold him into his arms. Keep him. Feel that he was real. Know it with a literality of both body and mind.

(In some parallel universe, he could see another version of himself responding wholly different. Succinctly confessing his sense of over joy at seeing his companion having risen from the depths of the great abyss.) It was a jarring, harrowingly unusual moment of Mental Split.

"Why now. Why this sudden reemergence?" he whispered in a hushed, strained voice.

"I-"

"-Is it because Mary is out of the picture?" John snarled accusingly; viciously, "Thought you'd just bow out for a bit, let it all run its course and then pop back in at the right time, thinking we could just up and start back from where we left off?"

Sherlock winced, "No, John I-"

"-Is that why you left me to think you were dead in the first place?" John choked out, insensate with utter, transparent hurt, "better dead than have to deal with the fact that you couldn't- that we couldn't-"

His voice withered off.

He felt the welling of tears forming within his eyes, and quashed them back. Weakly, he slumped against the wall behind him.

Sherlock moved forward, then stopped, just short of reaching out to touch his shoulder, letting his hand fall back to his side with pained look of self-restraint.

"John," he said in the most strangled, done in voice John had ever heard him utter, "Hear me out. I'm not going to make excuses. I had a very logical, urgent need for you to think me dead. It was imperative for assuring your safety. There was no alternative solution otherwise. I would have taken any other route than-"

"-I don't think you would have," John retorted, interjecting.

Sherlock scowled darkly.

"That's unjust of you."

"You could've trusted me."

"You're unskilled at dissimulation as I've said many times before. I couldn't put you at risk. They had to see your reaction as genuine, or they would have used you to draw me out."

John snorted, "I could've acted."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if sarcastically saying 'right'.

The man backed away finally and sat himself down across the living room, John following suit.

"I wouldn't have come here today if not for the sole purpose that it's been discovered… by certain parties that I'm alive and thus, you and I are now in the gravest of danger as we speak," he leveled John with a determined look, "I need you to comply with my instructions. It's of utmost importance."

John scowled. Because honestly he wanted, in that second, to shove the man out of his house and out of his sight.

But then he gave way just slightly. It  _would be_  petty to favour his wounded pride when their lives were at stake.

"Fine. Why do you need my assistance?"

"Because I can't inform any others— particularly the Yard of my continued existence— considering the possibility there may be inside agents. It'd be more practical to work as expediently and quietly as possible."

"And Mycroft is unable to help?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I don't have the resources available to make use of his aide."

"Er, why?"

"The agent after me, I have my suspicions, somehow has intel higher up."

John furrowed his brow considering this. "Are you saying you think he's somehow integrated himself into the government— wouldn't Mycroft be aware of this? Isn't he supposed to be omniscient or something?"

Sherlock smirked, "He's aware, but if he were to react, it'd tip off the agent. Obvious, John."

John furrowed his brow contemplatively, "Who exactly is this 'agent'?"

"An extremely clever, dangerous individual. Moriarty's right hand man. His predecessor. Now possessing reign over the underground crime syndicate— A web of a vast expanse. I just about covered half the surface of the globe with it hot on my heels."

"Again. This is kind of out of my territory, don't you think? Why not simply thrust me into a protection relocation service? How can I possibly-"

Sherlock smirked, disbelieving, "-You'd hardly be amenable to that, John. Don't you think I know better?"

John frowned, groaning inwardly.  _Damn him for always being right._

"In spite of your surface objections, you already know you're going to help me, so with need for alacrity, perhaps you might consider ceasing debate, and simply comply?"

"Fine. What's the plan."

"I have some arrangements to make. Expect me to come by round 9 this evening."

…

The nighttime sky above London was starless, reflecting from below the blaring lights of the city.

The two sat side by side in a cab, not speaking, though a thousand questions whizzed through John's skull begging to be voiced. Sherlock seemed tense, ridden with some sort of inward anxiety and excitement, staring out at the crowded streets of traffic and people walking along the sidewalk oblivious to their voyeur.

The path was familiar, and John recognized they were bound for Baker Street, but then, Sherlock stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square.

As they walked along, John following beside, he peered over at his companion whom at every subsequent corner darted his glance about to assure they hadn't been followed.

They emerged at last into a small road, which led into Manchester Street and so to Blandford.

Sherlock turned swiftly down a narrow passage and John followed through a wooden gate into a deserted yard. He knew they were in the neighborhood of their old flat, but was still baffled as to their exact location. With a crowbar, Sherlock broke them into the backdoor of a house, and it seemed (thankfully) abandoned. Their feet creaked and crackled over bare planking and John's outstretched fingers grazed the wall, feeling the deteriorating shreds of ribbons beneath his touch. His night vision terrible in the treacherous dark, he stumbled once or twice before Sherlock halted them. From out of a bag, he put on a pair of PVS-7 night goggles, and grabbed John's wrist in his cold, thin fingers, guiding him as they navigated their way up a flight of stairs.

At last, the two men reached a room with a window, and Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder leaning close so that his lips were nearly pressed against his ear. John shuddered inwardly with the proximity, warmth spreading within. He hoped that through the infrared, Sherlock would be unable to spot his suddenly heated complexion.

"Do you know where we are?" he whispered.

"Er… isn't that Baker Street?"

"We're in Camden House, which stands opposite to our own old flat. In fact, we are exactly at level with 221B. Take a look."

Sherlock tugged the dusty curtain ever so slightly back, just enough so that John could see out.

He gasped incredulously.

In the familiar window across the street the blinds were slanted down and a strong light was blaring from within the room. Against this, he could make out the figure of a man resembling Sherlock's precise silhouette- a perfect reproduction of the man himself. John darted a quick disbelieving glance back at Sherlock where he stood shaking with silent, gleeful laughter.

"I trust that 'age doth not wither nor custom stale my infinite variety'," Sherlock grinned within the dim of the room, "Pretty good facsimile then?"

John looked back out in utter amazement, "I'd swear it was you."

"The credit belongs solely to a robotics engineer I met in Russia, with a specialty for manufacturing humanoid type replicas for movie production companies. I arranged for Mrs. Hudson to set it up earlier— just twenty minutes ago."

"Er…why?"

"Do you not think those whom have become aware of my continued survival have not been allocated to watch that particular window, John?"

John watched in awe as the figure moved subtly, appearing alarmingly life-like. Surely, anyone else unaware of the singular truth, would be hard pressed to believe it was not in fact the man standing beside John at that very moment.

Suddenly, Sherlock drew in a breath of shrill excitement, leaning forward with rigid attention. John saw from outside the nearing approach of a man, and Sherlock quickly tugged John back with him into the darkest corner of the room, pressing a warning hand across his mouth.

Pressed beside one another, John could feel the other man tremble with barely suppressed exhilaration as he clutched him close.

A moment later he could hear the intruder trespass as they had not minutes before. The stairs creaked under heavy, steadily placed footsteps and Sherlock crouched back into the shadows, nearly pressing them both against the wall behind as the door hinges squeaked with the man's entry.

Seeing the vague outline of the figure, John felt his fingers twitch reflexively for his Browning.

The man crept forward toward the window, menacingly, a black shadow against the blackness of the room and John stood impossibly still, ceasing to breathe, his heart hammering against his ribcage, hoping it wouldn't give away their position. Adrenaline coursed through him just like that time when he'd gone out on that reconnaissance mission mapping out the steep caverns within the Afghani mountains. The ambush had led to John's first kill.

Noiselessly, the man knelt before the window leveling his sharpshooter. John could see his eyes gleam within the light streaming in from the streets below. He was a handsome, well-built man, and he could instantly tell from his bearing something that bespoke 'ex-military'. It was as evident in the other as it was in himself, the posture, the artfully technical, stability of aim.

Obviously fitted with a silencer, the bullet whizzed out barely breaking through the calm of the night. The only startling sound was that of the shattering glass of the window from across the street.

From out of the shadows, Sherlock leapt out like a dart and pounced upon the gunmen. He whipped around with alarm, and with trained reaction, instantly seized the Detective by his throat, tearing him off his back. John moved as if by instinct, cracking the man over the head with the butt of his gun and he dropped to the floor momentarily stunned.

With perfect timing, there was a clattering of footfall racing up the backstairs and Lestrade burst in, officers in tow.

Before the man completely came to he was bound on either side by two burly policemen and handcuffed. Yelling, he bucked with fury against his restraints.

"I knew it was you, Sherlock," Lestrade stated incredulously as he looked the man up and down.

Sherlock grinned, "Anonymous tip off?"

"From Mr. Holmes, yes. You should have let me know beforehand you were going to play vigilante! This bloke is extremely dangerous," The D.I. chastised.

"Ah. Mycroft never minding his own business, once again," Sherlock snorted.

"You should be grateful he didn't— otherwise I'd imagine we'd be shipping you both off to the morgue. This time for real for you, Sherlock. You do realize our gunslinger here had stationed two other men outside on guard?"

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully and Lestrade grinned, "I accept your thanks. You alright John?"

The man in question blinked, "Er. Yes. Fine."

Sherlock glanced down triumphantly, "Colonel. Lovely to see you again."

The man glowered, breathing harshly with a threatening, sinister expression, his face rife with burning malice and hatred as he looked back up at the Detective.

"I would've had you, you  _bastard._  You deserve to die for what you've done," he rasped out.

For a moment, John wondered at the depth of emotion behind the man's eyes. Of course, superficially they burned with rage, but underneath, he looked crushed. Destroyed.

 _Perhaps he had been a bit more than a 'right hand man',_  John mused.

"I'd like to introduce you all to my dear friend Colonel Sebastian Moran," Sherlock glanced over at John, "This chap here was the one doggedly pursuing me for the past 8 months. I must compliment you on your ingenious method for tracking, perhaps why you proved of such great use to our late ' _professor'._ "

The Detective turned around with a softening expression as he looked at his companion.

"And yes, John," he spoke, "Moran was biding his time by sending out his lackeys to watch you, waiting for the opportune moment to nab you so as to oust me from hiding."

…

John felt overwhelmed as the two of them sat side by side on their way back to John's flat. They were silent, both still in heavy rumination over the past few hours.

Sherlock escorted him up to his door, the cab waiting on the street behind.

"'Journey's end in lover's meeting,'" he said quietly, leveling John with a piercing look. He stood altogether too close, and John, feeling mixed with a desire to simultaneously close the gap between them and dash away behind the safety of the closed door of his apartment, opted for the latter.

He breathed harshly, his back against the inside of the door, still sensing his abandoned companion on the other side.

(Fuck.)  _Calm down._

He pinched his eyes shut. God, was he exhausted. Too much in too short of a time and he could barely put together all the pieces of the scattered puzzle across his brain.

"Er… John?" A voice spoke, muffled through the door, "Kind of rude, slamming the door in my face. You maybe want to let me in so we could talk?"

John drew in a quick intake of breath, "Talk later. I can't deal with this now."

And he couldn't.

He sensed the man's presence for a little while longer, the barrier between them being more than just the door.

Finally, the motor of the cab revved up and drove away fading down the street and John slumped against the door breathing harshly.

…

Amal looked aghast from where he sat across from John.

"Oh My God! That was more exciting than CSI! You have to write up this case— hell, if you don't do it, I'll have Tom do it. This deserves to be made into an action flick!" he expostulated, eyes wide and grinning broadly.

John frowned.

"I mean, the whole world thinks he's dead! And then 'BAM'! He shows up out of nowhere and drags you out on this amazing adventure— this is better than nearly half your other blogs, John!"

"I don't think you get the point, Amal. He lied to me."

"To protect you," Amal challenged, narrowing his eyes, "You have to give him some fair amount of leeway. It was for your own good."

John knew his friend was right, but stubbornly, his pride stung with the betrayal.

…

As he lay in his bed that night, exhausted from a long day at the office, his house felt emptier than ever. Somewhere, not far away in London, Sherlock Holmes was settling back into 221B Baker Street for the first time in close to a year.

John turned over tucking a thick blanket around his icy feet.

He wanted to forgive the man.

He understood the logic of his decision with regard to protecting John. He did.

But John had worked with such diligence to put aside his feelings, and he couldn't back track. Sherlock was a man of his Work, defined by it, and either way, John knew he would always be secondary. And that was fine if they maintained a civil, professional relationship, but as for anything else?

Not possible. He could not afford to disturb the recently, nearly cemented-up chasm within, but the cement was still wet and tacky.

He couldn't be torn apart all over again; next time (and there was bound to be a next time), it would be too much, and John would be unable to cope.

John's phone vibrated on his nightstand with an incoming text. Wearily he rolled over and unlocked the screen.

_John, I can understand your decision, and if your friendship is the only available allowance provided, I'll accept it gladly and not ask for more. –SH_

John petulantly typed in his response.

_Friendship is something you'll have to re-earn, as you've proven you can't trust me. But for the mean time, no, I won't continue to slam any more doors shut in your face. –JW_

_Good of you. But I disagree on one point. I do trust you, John. –SH_

John glared at the phone and contradicted the man.

_Yeah, fractionally. –JW_

_I had my reasons, don't beat a dead horse. –SH_

_Fine. I accept your apology. Sort of. Like I said. We'll see where things go. I'll agree to help you, if you need it, with any further cases. –JW_

He paused for a moment before adding his next response.

_That's all I'm willing to give. Do you understand? –JW_

_Transparently. –SH_

John turned off his phone, and plugged it back into the charger, drifting off to sleep that night with a newfound calm and resolution.

…

"Plenty of Fish? Whatever happened to OkayCupid? Or ?" Amal inquired.

"It's much, much better," Sarah replied setting down her Tupperware of salad, "But there's also J-Date."

The young physician grinned, "Have to be Jewish for that one. Mum brought me up a good Hindu boy."

"I'm just saying, Amal, you ought to try it out. Going out to clubs isn't the best way to pick up a clean-cut, up-standing bloke. It's utter  _slumming._  And you're getting a little old for the scene anyway, don't you think?" She responded pointedly, raising a finely manicured eyebrow.

"I take offense at that. I'm only 29."

John barely stifled a laugh, "That's not what your file says…"

"Ooh, the horrible 'Three-Oh'," Sarah giggled at Amal's scowl.

"I can be 29 for as long as I choose to be, thanks," he sniffed.

Diane suddenly piped in, "You know, a friend of mine is getting married to a chap she met on POF. They online dated for a month, and he moved up from Morocco to be with her."

Amal rolled his eyes, "I'll stick to real-life men, thanks. I'm not  _that_  desperate."

"Hey!" the receptionist frowned, "That's where I met David. And he's totally real!"

Ah. David. Well that was new.

" _God_ ," Amal whined, "Is everyone paired up these days?"

John cracked a grin and looked back over at Sarah, "That's right, how's your Dentist?"

Sarah flushed prettily, "Splendid. We've planned a trip up to Ireland next summer."

"Kiss the Blarney stone for me, then," Amal chuckled.

Diane took a seat next to John and sipped her coffee.

"So any new cases with Sherlock?"

"Seriously, since when did my blog get so popular?"

"Since the Case of the Vacant Apartment from two weeks ago. Or that one about the Vampire in Sussex.

"You never said whether or not he sparkled."

John furrowed a brow at Amal, "Er? What…?"

The man groaned and waved his hand dismissively, "Never mind."

"And oh, I loved that story about the Lion's mane!" Diane continued, "Or that 'Mazarin' stone one."

John rolled his eyes, "Dear Lord, maybe I should just publish a book and live off the royalties."

"You know, with the fact you can barely pay rent on your apartment, maybe you should take in a renter?" Amal supplied.

"Not happening."

"John," Sarah said sitting up in her chair, "You should type up some scripts of your cases and send them off to BBC."

"Right," John rolled his eyes, "Also not happening."

"You could post a profile on POF and get yourself a nice girlfriend to move in," Diane suggested.

There was a momentary pause.

"-Or boyfriend," Sarah muttered wryly.

John flushed, "Please don't let Harold hear you say that, I really don't think I could take his constant ribbing."

Amal snorted, "That's fine. I'll just be extra flamboyant and he'll never notice."

"Start wearing some pink shirts to the office," Diane suggested hiding a grin behind her hands.

"Or pass out some 'Support Gay-Marriage' pins."

"Or I could just snog him," Amal pointed out, smirking.

John's eyes widened hysterically, "That's nauseating."

He pictured the Indian man lip-locked with the balding, overweight pug-faced physician and grimaced, filing back the image to the delete folder of his brain.

Sarah grinned, "That's the most awful thing I've pictured in days."

With that, Diane gasped, laughing hysterically and gripped her sides, unable to breathe. The others joined in her infection cackling as just then, Harold entered, coffee mug in hand.

He raised an eyebrow, "Did I miss something?"

…

It was a perfect late spring day, and for once the sky was clear and bright, fluffy white clouds drifting above. John took a seat with his macchiato in hand and leaned back, taking it in.

It was good to have a moment to just relax. He'd been towed along on various cases with Sherlock the past few weeks and burdened with bills, and work and just…

Well…  _everything._

He crossed his legs and rested an arm on the back of the bench, people-watching. To an extent, he couldn't help but attempt application of his companion's deductive methods as he did so.

A man passed in a finely tailored suit bellowing out, and John was momentarily taken aback until he spotted the headset. Was he some kind of CEO of a multinational company? Surely his patent leather shoes had to be more expensive than John's last rent check.

A woman, holding her daughters hand, knelt down and straightened the child's blouse before escorting her into the nearby daycare. She held a briefcase and seemed a bit harried, perhaps a single-mother? He noticed a pale spot on her ring finger. Recently divorced?

Sherlock would probably scoff at John's feeble deductive attempts. But then again, wasn't it all really  _inductive_?

He'd never quite figured that part of it out.

A young couple walked past, the blokes arm about the woman's shoulders looking puffed with pride to be seen with his attractive mate.

Two women walked from around the corner, the one leaning in to kiss her partner before parting. The other walked back in the direction they'd come, looking incredibly blissful.

John turned his gaze to yet another pair, an elderly couple strolling slowly, hand in hand. So content, and loving and complete they looked.

John sighed, his heart aching just slightly with longing.

Perhaps he was a bit lonely. His thoughts wandered back to the conversation about dating websites.

He'd initially dismissed the idea outright, but maybe… well he hadn't ever thought to try it before.

In spite of his busy schedule, he did miss the idea of coming home to a mate, a partner, someone who would be there to greet him, someone to converse with, or simply chatter mindlessly with. Even someone to sit beside him in companionable silence, watching the telly or reading a book, or typing away on a laptop.

Sure, he had the light engaging banter with Amal or Sarah, the prattle between co-workers, and even the fulfilling exhilaration of rushing about on cases beside his maddening,  _colleague_ , and tentative friend.

But. He missed the intimacy. And  _God_. It'd been forever since he'd had a decent shag.

…

DoctorAceShot

34/Male/Single/_

(John paused momentarily before filling in the next part, but breathed out a sigh and went for it.)

34/Male/Single/Bisexual

London, UK

ETHNICITY: White HEIGHT: 1.77 m. BODY TYPE: Athletic DIET: Anything SMOKES: No DRINKS: Socially DRUGS: Never

(Well, he wouldn't think about that nightclub incident…)

RELIGION: – SIGN: Cancer EDUCATION: M.D. JOB: Physician INCOME: – CHILDREN: – PETS: – SPEAKS: English-fluent

MY SELF SUMMARY:

( _Keep it succinct_ , he reminded himself.)

I am independent and fun-loving, but I also enjoy a nice night at home, taking walks, going out to supper, and writing in my spare time.

(Should he mention the stint in the army? Why not. Some folks were really into a man in uniform…)

Served two terms as an Army-medic.

(He should also be fair enough to mention the whole Divorce thing; clear the air right off the bat rather than having to deal with a possible awkward explanation at a later date.)

Recently divorced. No children.

WHAT I AM DOING WITH MY LIFE:

Working at a clinic. Going out with friends. (That was vague enough, right?)

WHAT I AM REALLY GOOD AT:

(Tough one.)

Being a Doctor, writing (sort-of, at least not according to  _Sherlock_. Stupid. Stop relating everything back to him!), cooking, organization, (insert humour) talking about the weather.

(Not going to mention the bit about his skill with a gun. Might scare some folks unnecessarily.)

THE FIRST THINGS PEOPLE USUALLY NOTICE ABOUT ME:

(Er…)

I have a decent variety of jumpers…

FAVORITE BOOKS, MOVIES, SHOWS, MUSIC AND FOOD:

Ask me in person. But as for food—I love curry and Italian.

THE SIX THINGS I COULD NEVER DO WITHOUT:

1.) (…Don't say 'Sherlock'. Christ! Stop thinking of him. The world does NOT revolve around that man.) A warm knit jumper on a cold day 2.) Tea 3.) Laptop 4.) Friends 5.) (…Don't say Browning L9A1. Really he wasn't supposed to have it anyway… and again with the scaring people thing. Though John supposed they might be a little leery if they ever met Sherlock...Damn, this question was hard.) 5.) Microwave. 6.) You? (Maybe that was bit presumptious… but…eh. He'd keep it.)

I SPEND A LOT OF TIME THINKING ABOUT:

(John exhaled with frustration as his mind wandered back to the man in 221B…)

What I'm going to do after work.

(Vague, and kind of a lie, as most days he damn well knew what he was going to end up doing…)

ON A TYPICAL FRIDAY NIGHT I AM:

(Dragged all over town on a case with Sherlock? Shit, shit, shit.)

Having a drink with a friend, watching the telly.

THE MOST PRIVATE THING I AM WILLING TO ADMIT:

(Where to start? Christ.) I prefer boxers… (Yes. Settle back on the humour.)

I AM LOOKING FOR:

Men and Women

Ages 25-40

Near me

For Friends, Long-term Dating, Activity Partners, Long-distance Pen-pals

YOU SHOULD MESSAGE ME IF:

You seek a commitment with someone who is caring and loyal (Oi. Don't think about Mary, and God. Enough with Sherlock!). Or if you simply want companionship or an excellent, intelligent conversation.

YOU MUST BE:

STD and Drug free (practical expectation), independent, educated, nice, single.

(He checked the box allowing for both profile matches with and without a profile pic, because honestly, it was more important to get to know a person beyond the physical, right?)

John filled out a few more similar profiles across other dating websites, posted a decent photo of himself, signed out and closed his laptop with a sigh.

Now would be the waiting game.

…

Before work the following morning, with a moderate level of anxious excitement, he flipped open the computer and logged on to his e-mail.

Ahah! Several replies.

Hurriedly, he opened the notices.

Sent from Kissflower2933: [Hi! Loved your profile! Your jumperin ur pic is super cute! Yur cute 2! –Tiffany]

Sent from Binger8Hotbod: [Hit me up if you wanna chat. Got pics? I'll send u mine if u want.]

Sent from Anastasia11: [Hi, DoctorAceShot, I'm an aquarius, vegan, 36, I've got two labs (my babies!), and a son in primary. I'm recently divorced, and I live in Greenwich. I run 3 miles every morning and keep fit, do art in my spare time, and work full-time as a Manager at a pharmacy. I also volunteer on weekends at the local homeless shelter.

My favourite show is House. Do you like American telly? And oh my gosh, I also LOVE curry.

I very much enjoyed your profile, and would love to get to know more about you.]

-JCrewHeadband 'winked' at you. Reply?

Sent from PicardStar_T: [Your profile is short. Tell me more about yourself. Read mine if you want to know more about me.]

Sent from StarryGuy56: [Hey DoctorAceShot—

My name is Troy, 35, fit, single, STD (AND) Drug free. I enjoy watching football and I play on a local rugby team over in South Bank—the GreenKnights, (But I'm not all sports, so no worries, mate.) I'm currently working on fixing up an old Astin Martin, and (in real life) I work as an accountant. And no, I'm not just some old numbers cruncher. : )

Really enjoyed your profile and your pic is hot. Wouldn't mind getting to know you a bit. Maybe meet for drinks if you're free? Reply back and I'll e-mail you my cell number so we can arrange something.

Hope to hear back soon!]

John leaned back in his chair and pushed away his toast. He liked that last bloke. But then again maybe the vegan pharmacy manager?

No. She had a son, she'd said. He didn't want to write her off outright, but he didn't really think he'd be a good father figure, what with the part-time dangerous life-style…

So, he quickly typed out a reply to 'Troy' and shut off his laptop.

…

Amal bent over howling with laughter and John scowled.

"It's not that funny."

The man calmed and took a seat, abandoning his sandwich. "No. It's  _hilarious._ "

Sarah shook her head, "I think it's great John. You should be out in the dating field again."

"Yeah, but  _Online Dating?_ " Amal calmed, "I mean,  _seriously_ John. You could've just asked  _me_  you know?"

John raised an eyebrow, "I'm pretty sure we went over the fact a few dozen times that I'm only interested in you platonically."

"Ouch! You  _wound me_ ," Amal grinned broadly, "I meant- asked me to set you up with someone  _else_. I have plenty of single friends I could introduce you to-"

"-Oh please, Amal, like anybody would be interested in  _your_ friends," Sarah drawled.

"You're my friend, so what does that make you?"

"Well I'm taken, and anyway," she smiled, "John and I already dated."

Amal sighed straightening up in his chair. He leaned forward resting his face into the palms of his hands and leered at John.

"So… tell us. Who is the lucky lady?" he batted his lashes, "...Or bloke?"

John flushed, "Erm… _his_  name is Troy. He's seems nice. Good-looking."

Sarah reached over to pat John's arm, "Good luck John. I hope your date tonight goes well."

"Thanks," he replied nodding, face hot.

…

Filled with inward trepidation, John tossed on a pair of khaki trousers and a sharp, well-fitted navy oxford.

As the cab approached the restaurant, he shook off his nerves and told himself that this was going to be just fine.

"Er yes. Under the name Troy?"

"Ah, reservation for two. Right this way, Sir."

The honey-voiced hostess escorted him to his table, where sat an extremely handsome, well-built bloke with sandy hair swept back stylishly. Wearing a black lapelled jacket over a polo he looked like something walked out of an Armani advert.

John flushed slightly as he approached clearing his throat.

(God, did he feel homely in comparison…)

The man ('Troy') glanced up and grinned broadly at John gesturing for him to take a seat. The hostess set down their menu's and left promising their server would be right over with their drinks. (John raised an eyebrow in confusion…he hadn't yet ordered one…).

"John?" Troy held out his tanned large hand, gripping John's, "I'm glad you've made it. Right on the dot. I hope you don't mind I ordered us some cocktails. You like Veoh and seltzer?"

John nodded dumbly, "That's fine, er... so-"

He fumbled for something to say. How does one go about falling into casual conversation with a stranger? This was rather new territory and he felt his typical knack for easy camaraderie slip a bit.

"So-" Troy smiled, flashing blindingly white, bleached teeth in his direction, "Tell me a bit about yourself. I'd like to get to know you."

(Did he have work done, or what?) John stared at the man's perfect symmetrical nose and twitched.

...

Though the man had claimed to 'want to get to know him better', clearly he was much more interested in talking about himself. With a pompous sort of arrogance, he twisted around every conversation back onto what  _he was doing, what he enjoyed._  It was all a bit condescending and left John with a bitter taste in his mouth.

So… after being pushed to regale his failed date to his coworkers, they prodded him to try again.

John shrugged, (Why not?) Thus, he settled out an arrangement with the next on his list. A woman by the name of 'Susan' whom worked as a lab technician. Perhaps he'd have a bit more in common with her, he hoped.

"And then I said to Meghan, well why not? It was so-"

John tuned her out. She was apparently an incessant chatterbox droning on and on ad nauseam about endlessly tedious subject matter that held no relevant interest for him. Not that she seemed to notice, or for that matter, mind his bored distracted looks, or his sudden extreme fascination with his supper.

The following man had no profile pic, but as they had traded a few rather nice e-mails back and forth, he decided to meet up with the man.

'Sam', his name was, was extravagantly flamboyant, and John loathed to be seen with him. He was also incredibly handsy and that, in and of itself was enough for John to delete him right out of his phone.

He tried again for a female this time, Joanne was 38, an accountant and fastidiously dressed. She had pointed, (though attractive) features, and tightly pulled back, black hair. In a sense, she reminded him of 'Lilith' from that American sitcom 'Frasier'. And as her doppelganger, was entirely similar in character. Several times she seemed disinterested in John's conversation, though nodded her head politely all the while. Also, a major put off was the fact that she continuously seemed to need to answer her phone cutting off all of their conversations midway.

With exasperation, John tried for another date with another woman, whom he was glad had promised they'd go 'dutch', as he was beginning to worry for his checkbook and the waning number on his bank statement.

He hurriedly rushed away from 221B leaving Sherlock a bit put out, and arrived just in time to the little café on Westbourne.

 _Well,_  she was very lovely. A bit  _too_  lovely.

In fact— she fawned all over John, and while the flattery was nice, it was all rather a bit much. He made a tactical retreat; promising to call in order to shake her off, determined to carefully screen his calls in the near future.

…

Sherlock peered at John under lowered lashes across the table.

"So you've been busy recently."

"Yup," John replied offhandedly, tucking into his spaghetti. The man narrowed his eyes.

"Dates."

John nodded, shrugging.

"So," Sherlock began carefully, "Not just one person, then. A variety."

Again, John nodded dismissively, twisting his fork around his noodles.

"…I see."

He looked up to find the man studying him with a look of concentration.

"See what?" John asked, furrowing his brow.

The man leaned back in his seat, pressing his lips together thoughtfully, and they changed the subject.

…

There was Donna, Alyssa, Miriam, and Liza.

Liza was very witty and amicable, and John liked her immediately though she had no profile pic, which was absolutely just fine, of course. When they met, he decided she wasn't the most strikingly attractive of women, but then, they seemed to get along well and share enough in common. Their conversation was easy and free flowing, until of course, out of nowhere, she started bawling, wracked in sobs. John stared in shock across the table trying to remember if he'd said something wrong.

"I'm so sorry," She blubbered, "It's just that, I just got out of a relationship of three years, and I thought I was ready to move on…b-but-"

She burst out in tears once more, cheeks wet beneath the streams and John cringed.

_Well, that could have gone better._

…

Amal, once again, to John's displeasure, chuckled heartily at his misfortune.

"Have you considered maybe trying out a few men, again? They can't all be bad."

And so John followed his advice.

There was Bob, Anthony, and then Tucker.

The last one was a slob. Utterly. He arrived late, (check). Was wearing flannels, (check). Unemployed, (check). Still lived with his mum, (check and crossed off).

John was beginning to feel rather disgusted at the redundancy of it all.

"I don't see why you don't just end it, John," Sherlock drawled, "Clearly, the dating websites are insufficient means of meeting an appropriate partner."

John scowled. Sherlock was so dense, sometimes.

But. At the very least, he wasn't suggesting for John to attempt a stab at their relationship again, because, honestly, that would've been simply aggravating.

Though, a part of him was rather miffed, and small bit resentful that he wasn't… trying harder.

No.  _Stupid. Not a bit good, that thought._

John was  _completely_ over Sherlock bloody Holmes. Had a well sorted out catalogue of reasons several meters high why it would be a Bad Idea to reconsider being with the man.

Which didn't stop him from wishing, occasionally, he was sitting across the table from him as they once had done so easily; engaged in their typical intelligent, subtextually flirtatious banter and conversation. Instead, there was the slew of bad dates and regrettable company of hopeful strangers.

A needling regret tugged him from within, and John stomped it back down vehemently, reminding himself of his resolve to  _not think about Sherlock._

…

"You know," Amal said ponderingly, "I think we're going about all of this wrong."

John raised an eyebrow and set down his tea.

"Okay, and what's that mean?"

"Sarah was right, though don't tell her I said so, but the bars are an awful place for meeting a nice chap, and you've had zero luck on the websites, so…" he slid a clipping from the paper across the break room's coffee stained, resin table over to John.

"Are you…  _serious?_ " John furrowed his brow as he stared at the advert posting a 'meet and greet' for gay singles in the London Metro area.

Amal grinned, shrugging, "Why not give it a go? We can tag along together, watch each other's backs so to speak. How about it? I think it's a great idea, personally."

"Last time you dragged me out on one of your 'great ideas' I ended up stoned and soshed out of my gourd. I almost got lost on my way home."

Amal frowned, "That, was your own fault, John."

John sighed as the man leaned forward animatedly, "I have a good feeling about this. Please. Come with me."

John wearily agreed.

…

John rushed out, grabbing his blazer and nearly knocked down Sherlock as he made his way out of his apartment.

"Going off again?" He huffed impatiently, "I thought you were giving up on this."

John shrugged sheepishly, "Trying something else."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, frowning, "I don't see what you have to gain by wasting your time like this, John. We have better things to do."

"Nope," John grinned, " _You_  have better things to do.  _I_  am off. And late. So if you don't mind-"

John pushed his way past Sherlock, biting his lip anxiously, hoping to spot a cab.

"You're very determined aren't you," he scowled unhappily, "Fine. Have fun  _wasting your time_. Or whatever it is you need to do."

"Thanks. I will," John chirped as he hailed down a passing cab.

…

The meeting was held in a conference room at a nearby hotel. Punch was served around as the men crowded in, some chatting casually already and others appearing nervous and wiping sweaty palms against their trousers.

A long row of tables with seats aligned, signified the location of the game, like musical chairs, they'd each be given three minutes to talk, and then the one side of the table would shuffle over to their next quarry.

After a brief announcement where directions were given, the rotation officially began.

Over the past hour, he and Amal would occasionally catch each other's eyes, and the man would dart an appraising glance at John's various partner and either nod his approval or give him a brief, subtle warning glance.

Of the men, there were a few that weren't dreadful.

Lawrence: Witty. Honest open eyes and attractive features. Younger. Athletic. Fun-loving. Maybe too young. Not ready for anything more than a romp.

Max: Serious, an obvious intellectual and a historian. Author of several published works. Confidant. Well groomed. On the boring side.

Jack: Stylish. Upbeat. Shaved head. A bit on the heavier side. Glasses. Excellent smile. Apparently wealthy. Yacht club type. Perhaps a bit too effusive.

Rick: Unusually attractive. Professor at local technical school. Piercing blue eyes. Tall and lean. Black hair. If he hadn't been so coy and modest he would've been a bit of a dead-ringer for Sherlock. So probably best not to consider him.

And then there was…

Kyle: Polite, down to earth. Fit. Attractive, soft features, hazel eyes, light-ginger hair, and a kind, warm smile. A Vet-tech. Intelligent enough and also rather charming, funny.

John liked him immediately, (he was so utterly opposite of Sherlock in every way, which was an absolute relief).

So, they exchanged numbers.

Evidently Amal had struck gold as well, merrily shaking the hand of a shorter bloke with curly, golden hair.

His grin was a bit blinding as they rejoined each other to head on home.

…

If Sherlock had acted a bit put out before, now he was downright petulant.

John and Kyle had now gone out on several, extraordinarily successful dates, and he had abandoned Sherlock twice in a row.

Things were actually going…sort of swimmingly for once.

"John," Kyle laughed, "You're incredibly funny."

John flushed, grinning, about to reply when his phone went off.

(Oh. Sherlock.  _Of course._ )

He excused himself politely and went off to the restroom to take his call.

"Sherlock! You do realize I'm out with Kyle, right?"

" _You_  'do realize' you're priorities are incredibly out of order, right? I need you here,  _immediately,_ " the man retorted sharply over the phone.

"Can't. Won't. Stop calling me."

"Is that an order?" Sherlock's voice seemed taken aback, and a touch offended.

John hung up, and rejoined his date.

Supper of course, was fantastic with the man's excellent company and John felt he was just about ready to take it to the next level, (because seriously. He needed like burning to get off. And Kyle was proving extremely receptive.) Thus, he suggested for their next date to take place at John's apartment. (He'd invited him over once before merely for John to show off his genius knack for making a good pudding, but hadn't advanced beyond a bit of groping).

Kyle readily accepted.

And then.

(Of course.) The other shoe dropped.

John stood in shock, as he entered his apartment thinking to get ready for his date that evening, to see Kyle unpacking several boxes, suitcases by the bedroom, and his living room completely rearranged.

His jaw dropped open, gawking incredulously.

"Hi, John!" Kyle greeted, jumping up to come over to kiss him 'hello'.

He held out his arm, restraining the man back.

Kyle frowned, "You alright?"

"What," John bit out sharply, "Exactly are you doing."

The other man rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, "Well I just thought- that we were ready to take our relationship to the next level, you  _had_  said as much-"

"-In what sense did you think I meant?" John gasped, backing away from the other man.

"Er," he stammered, "I love you, John. I want to start a life together. I thought we were on the same page-"

John nearly laughed out in utter astonishment, "-And you were going to mention this to me when? By moving in? Without talking to me about it first?"

Kyle pouted, "John, I thought I was clear on our first date, I told you I wanted to-"

"-Nope. We weren't clear on anything of the sort," he bit out, "We haven't even made it to the  _bedroom_  yet, and your bloody moving in?"

"Please, John, I thought you were-"

"-No. Please. Kindly remove your belongings from my apartment. This is really, very much, not good."

"John-" the man pleaded desperately.

(Fuck.) Seriously? Talk about a major invasion of privacy and space and how incredibly presumptuous! It beggared belief!

Needless to say, he ceased communication with Kyle.

…

Amal on the other hand, was apparently having much more luck with his bloke from the 'meet and greet'.

He positively glowed with a satiated air and John felt burning resentment. (Christ, what deity up there had it in for him? It was very much, unfair.)

"Well. Don't give up just yet. Just try maybe…" he mused, "To be a bit more, er…selective?"

John furrowed his brow with frustration, "How do you mean?"

"Try the websites again," Amal shrugged, "Though, before you run off planning dates, maybe you could try lengthening your correspondence period a bit. Get to know the other person. Make sure they're not some kind of loon before you fall headlong into anything."

Fair enough.

…

Radio_ManLuke held John captivated for days, until he learned of the man's rather pointed inclination toward pacifism. So, 'another one bites the dust.' John thought.

LadyCassiopeia he immediately ceased conversation with after the third letter in which she practically wrote him an essay expressing her love for each of her 11 cats. John cringed. (He liked pets, really, but that had to be some kind of health code violation.)

SirNick_L1450 had a very attractive profile pic, and seemed at first charmingly shy. Then, he IM'ed him, attempting to engage John in a bit of sexting.

IckleMeggy17 whom again, had no profile pic turned out through further wheedling, to apparently be the same age as the number after her screen name.

LotsySQUID1 was an excellent conversationalist and he had high hopes for her, until she sent him a pic of her bare chest.

BadStyleGrl had sexually propositioned him after only the second letter. Seriously, he was as desperate as the next bloke, but when had everyone become so…  _lewd_?

And then there was DuPinsFolly. After his initial catastrophic failures with other's with no profile pic, and the vaguest possible, blank profile, he initially thought to reject his initial request for correspondence outright.

(User Has Not added Photo)

DuPinsFolly

_/_/Gay/Single

London, UK

MY SELF SUMMARY:

Self-employed. Independent. Educated in practical sciences.

Recreational hobbies include practicing Baritsu, moderate research and appreciation for classical music.

(Several categories were then skipped.)

THE SIX THINGS I COULD NEVER DO WITHOUT:

Illogical.

(John smirked, yeah, he'd also hated that question.)

I SPEND A LOT OF TIME THINKING ABOUT:

Bored.

(Something in John's chest skipped a beat. Whoever this person was, would probably get along famously with Sherlock.)

WHAT AM I DOING ON A TYPICAL FRIDAY NIGHT:

Irrelevant. Additionally, you could ask me yourself.

THE MOST PRIVATE THING I AM WILLING TO ADMIT:

See above answer for clarification.

(John furrowed his brow, baffled to note the 'I am looking for' section missing.)

YOU SHOULD MESSAGE ME IF:

I've sent you a message first, otherwise I will not reply.

(John smirked, feeling a bit intrigued.)

[Hi- Got your request that you wanted to talk, though I admit I'm a bit leery of responding to someone of indeterminate gender, and I have experienced a few issues with previous users whom lacked profile pics. Any reason for this?

Anyway, tell me a bit about yourself, and feel free to ask whatever question may come to mind about me.] -DoctorAceShot

(he fought with himself for a moment about signing his name, then decided he felt he ought to hold back since DuPinsFolly was so sparing with his own personal info.)

John sighed, waiting impatiently for his response. Clearly he/she/it was online, according to the green dot beside his/hers/its screen name.

To his relief his heard the melodic bleep signaling a reply.

[To answer your inquiry, I'm male. What else would you care to know?] - DuPinsFolly

[Your age would be helpful, as well as perhaps some other info? Specifically, you mentioned you do research and enjoy classical music, what is your profession? Do you have a favourite composer? What on earth is 'Baritsu'? Why no profile pic?] –DoctorAceShot

[That's more than a few questions. A few implies three. You have asked me five questions. So it is only fair if you answer five of my own. However, I will only charge you a fee of one question for now. I reserve my right to ask the other four later.

ANSWERS:

Age is within your required parameters of 25-40.

Privately employed, as previously stated.

Yes, I have several 'favourite composers'.

Baritsu is a hybrid form of martial arts including Bartitsu and Jiujitsu.

Unnecessary. Attraction should be first based on an intellectual connection, a meeting of the mind and soul, if you want to be poetic about it. The physical is of unarguable importance, but secondary.

Question:

Why were you divorced?] –DuPinsFolly

John raised his eyebrow. That was rather blunt and tactless to ask due to their relative lack of familiarity.

[First off, I don't feel I owe you any answer considering the continual vagueness of your own.

So I will re-ask with specificity this turn, and then I will consider your question, only if I deem yours answers sufficient. (I mean, why bother talking in the first place if you're going to be so unrevealing. What are you afraid of?)

Specific age, please. Not asking for birthdate.

What does your profession entail?

Name your favourite composer then, seriously not that hard of a question.

What?

I concede your point. I too, feel attraction is less significant than an understanding of each other on a deeper level—if the end result is to form a lasting relationship. ] –DoctorAceShot

[Your question (though never officially asked): 'what am I afraid of' is rather clairvoyant, because yes, to some degree I am reticent to too easily reveal an abundance of information. But, No. I'm not afraid of 'opening up' to you. Nor am I attempting to appear 'mysterious' as some kind of 'lure' to bate you into speaking with me since that would be foolish and fail to serve any purpose.

I only desired to remain 'vague' with the conclusion that you would be likely to precipitously judge me for surface qualities, rather than rely on the pertinent 'Answer 5' to further allow yourself to explore any interest in my person.

CLARIFICATION:

31.

Research, as I've now stated exhaustively. What of? The human condition, more or less. Though at this time, I will not extrapolate.

Sarasate. And because I'm generous, I'll let you in on my favourite song: 'Zigeunerweisen'- translation-'Gypsy Airs'.

Utilizing the principle of using ones opponent's energy against them, combined with applying techniques of self defense with various weaponry, boxing, kicking, etc. Extremely useful.

I'm pleased with your concurrence upon this vein, as at this juncture, it's paramount for our continued interlocutory.

Answer my previous question.] –DuPinsFolly

John dragged a hand down his face warily. He didn't have to reply at all. He could simply sign off and ignore the bloke.

But really, he was fascinated, there was something about the man. He was extremely intelligent and quite clever.

John felt his gut clench with a sharp, nervous excitement.

No. He'd have to respond, if only to keep up their witty epistolary. John hadn't been this entertained in ages.

And plus, he didn't need to tell the truth. The stranger would never know the difference.

[It's rather complicated, but in short, she fell in love with another man and left me.] -DoctorAceShot

There. Perfect way to keep from implicating himself in any way.

[Ah. I see. I suspect you are circumventing to an extent, but I'll allow for the matter to slide. Were you wounded by her betrayal?] -DuPinsFolly

John grimaced.

[I'm not sure how to answer that. Yes and no. It wasn't working out, so it was fine in the end. I was alright with her decision.] –DoctorAceShot

[What wasn't working about it?] -DuPinsFolly

God, the man was getting personal! He didn't even bother to preface his pointed questions with 'if you don't mind me asking…'

[I understand your curiosity, but I don't see how it makes any difference to you. If I answer your question truthfully will you let it go? Can we talk of something else?] –DoctorAceShot

[Absolutely.] –DuPinsFolly

[I was never able to completely love her. Not for any fault of hers, but for my own. I cared for someone else.] –DoctorAceShot

[Do you still?] –DuPinsFolly

[We had an agreement. I answered your question, we change the subject.] –DoctorAceShot

[My previous question could not be more relevant.] –DuPinsFolly

Alright, John agreed. That was a fair question, considering his answer would certainly be a determining factor as to whether the man might be interested in furthering their possible relationship.

[Though I still care for the individual, it will not be of any complication because I have many reasons why our relationship would be unfeasible.] –DoctorAceShot

There was a silence for almost three minutes and John almost gave up, feeling a sense of flooding regret.

[Would you be amenable to disclosing why?] –DuPinsFolly

[As I said. Many reasons. Trust. Honesty. A profession which this individual lives and breathes, which I would never ask him to give up for fear of endangering me.] –DoctorAceShot

[So your understanding is that this man would prefer his profession to you? You fear he would, in an act of fear, push you aside thinking you may come to harm?] –DuPinsFolly.

[That's the gist of it. But he's also impossible. And he lied to me about something very large, and it's very difficult to forgive him, though his intent was good. There are other reasons. Like I said- complicated. But put aside. In the past. I've moved on. Lets talk about something else, now that we've cleared the air.] –DoctorAceShot

[That would be acceptable. What do you suggest?] –DuPinsFolly

[Well, let's start off with introducing ourselves. My name is John, nice to meet you, and you are…?] –DoctorAceShot

[Siger. The pleasure is mine.] –DuPinsFolly

…

And so they went on with their correspondence for days and John was absolutely entranced. Yes, the man was blunt and a bit prying all the while remaining relatively elusive himself, but when they spoke of subject matter not pertaining to the personal—well, they got on rather splendidly.

In the office during break, John all but ignored his colleagues in favour of continuing his conversation with 'Siger'. Thank God for Harry's old smartphone. As he was quickly able to latch onto any surrounding available network, and respond with spitfire speed to their rapidly arching banter.

[So you never answered the '6' things question in your profile. What would they be?] –DoctorAceShot

Amal looked over John's shoulder, "'DoctorAceShot'? Oi, John. Real clever."

"Shut it," he said waving the other man away as Siger's answer popped up on his screen.

[Figuratively or Literally? Tangible or intangible?] –DuPinsFolly

"'DuPinsFolly'," Amal spoke aloud, once again looming over John, "Du…Pin. Dupin. Why does that sound familiar?"

John typed in his response before answering his friend, [Either. Both.] –DoctorAceShot

"What do you mean?"

Amal furrowed his brow and rubbed his chin gazing thoughtfully at John. Suddenly his eyes became alit.

"John," he asked, his tone trembling slightly, "Does Sherlock know you're dating people online?"

"Obviously. Can't put much past him, why?"

His phone blinked with the incoming message:

[1. Internet 2. Ninhydrin 3. Brain 4. Formaldehyde 5. Liquids 6. Solids. John-what is your preference, cooking or being cooked for? No. Don't tell me. Let me guess.] –DuPinsFolly

Amal eyed him warily, "Do you know Dupin is a fictional detective created by Edgar Allen Poe?"

John looked up, startled.

"You don't think, perhaps, 'Siger'-if that is his real name, has created a sort of play on words with his screen name?"

"How so?"

"As if insulting Dupin for his poor methods of detection? Dupin's  _Folly_? Isn't that very, er… familiar to someone we know? Someone who is himself a detective? Someone who might be critical of other's techniques in the field?"

John frowned,  _no possible way_.

Amal narrowed his eyes, "I wouldn't put it past him."

John shook his head dismissively, "You couldn't be further from the truth. I'll prove it to you."

"What are you going to ask 'Siger' outright?"

"Absolutely not! I'll approach Sherlock about it tonight, we're supposed to meet up about a case."

"Right," Amal frowned, "For your sake, I hope I'm wrong."

John was confidant he was.

[You like cooking for others, it makes you feel purposeful. You live your life solely seeking to fulfill purpose. It's what makes you utterly you.] –DuPinsFolly

…

Sherlock took the phone from John's hand and stared studiously at the last message.

"Who is this? Do you have any idea, Sherlock? Amal implies that you might."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow and quirked a grin as he read back their most recent line of correspondence, "I give you my respects John, for once I approve."

John raised an eyebrow, "And that means what?"

"He's clever."

"Amal thinks he's you," John blurted out.

Sherlock grinned queerly, eyes glittering darkly, "And what do you think?"

"There are… er, similarities."

"Undoubtedly."

John frowned, "Please don't tell me he's right."

Sherlock shook his head, "Then I won't."

They sat silently, the supper forgotten.

"He's not right?" John prodded, a creeping fear gripping him.

"I can see where one might think it."

(No, John confirmed,  _No,_ Sherlock wouldn't deceive him in this way. Not after everything...)

And plus, Siger certainly had peculiar similarities, but he was certainly… different in many ways from the man across the table. Right?  _Wasn't he_?

"John-" he sighed crossing his arms, "Do you really think I would waste my time on so trivial a pursuit? Besides, do you not recall my disapproval for  _Dating Sites_  as an appropriate means of meeting a partner?"

Well Alright.  _He had_  mentioned something of the sort. Good. John blew out a breath of relief.

"So, you… enjoy his…company?"

"Erm. Yes," John admitted with lingering reticence.

"And you seem to be advancing in a romantic direction?"

John paused looking at his friend thoughtfully, "…Possibly. I'd like to mention swapping cell numbers at some point, possibly suggest a meet up."

"It seems to me, from your past failures you would have learned by now that you need to be in less of a haste to meet. You should try to get to know each other better first," Sherlock advised carefully.

John contemplated the other man across from him narrowing his eyes, "This whole dating advice act, Sherlock— why do you care?"

Sherlock trained his gaze down on the table seeming to find it very interesting suddenly. He plucked at the table cloth.

"Remember when I agreed initially that for us to work together efficiently, you require additional companionship for peace of mind?"

"I recall."

"Do you not think I wouldn't want you to be happy? After…" Sherlock peered at John searchingly, "…everything?"

John felt a heat creep into his face as a faint reminiscing of Sherlock's declaration fleetingly bat its wings in the back of his mind: _'you, as the heart that beats within me.'_

Damn it all. His mouth went dry as his gut twisted inwardly.

No, he was determined to put aside those feelings. They wouldn't be of any good to dwell upon. Besides, now he had…  _well, sort of_ … this  _new_ and  _intriguing_  man whom seemed to stir in him, for the first time in ages— a new kind of hope.

John smiled up at Sherlock placidly, "Thank you, then. For… understanding."

His companion leaned back with a strange smile and relaxed. John took this as confirmation that Sherlock had understood. Moved on. And that was…good.

"Right. Okay. Anyway, so what did Lestrade give us today?"

…

John stretched out across his couch, completely hooked on his conversation.

[So what's with your Screen name? What does it mean?] – DoctorAceShot

[Hah. I was wondering when you were going to ask that. You are familiar with Poe's 'Murder's in the Rue Morgue'?] –DuPinsFolly

[Obviously. I had an education, thanks.] -DoctorAceShot

[Point One: In short, the method of detection is inverted, presented backwards. Which is fine, within fiction. But its contradictory to reality. Point Two: Dupin, as the analyst, fails to be ratiocinative in spite of loftily declaring his desire to only 'seek the truth'. He relies too weightily on empathetic intuition rather than considering the blatant facts. Since he is but human, he cannot be wholly un-objective, thus, his method of conjecture is vulnerable to failure. Only a computer can be impervious to external influence. And even that, is designed by man, and is thus in itself flawed.] –DuPinsFolly

[Then how can one truly sort the variables to obtain a correct conclusion?] –DoctorAceShot

[By looking at the Facts, John.] –DuPinsFolly

[Fair enough. Though you've sort of ruined the fun of fiction for me.] –DoctorAceShot

[ha.] –DuPinsFolly

[So. What (do) you 'do on a typical Friday night'? I mean other than picking apart classic literature?] –DoctorAceShot

[What do you do?] –DuPinsFolly

John grinned playfully.

[You can't counter a question with one of your own without answering first. No fair.] –DoctorAceShot

[I'm either working or bored.] –DuPinsFolly

[Don't you do anything recreationally? With mates? Like go out to the pub or whatnot?] –DoctorAceShot

[Not everyone considers their work boring. But yes, I occasionally go out to supper with a 'mate' once in awhile. When he deigns to bother with me.] –DuPinsFolly

[Doesn't sound like a very good friend if he doesn't enjoy your company.] –DoctorAceShot

[He's busy. Doesn't matter. We all have our different priorities. Do you feel sorry for me, John?] –DuPinsFolly

He could almost hear the tone of sarcasm in the other man's words.

[I would be of better company.] –DoctorAceShot

[You're proving to be so at the moment.] –DuPinsFolly

John sighed wearily.

_God, was this an exercise in frustration._

[I wish you were here right now.] –DoctorAceShot

There was a lull where Siger failed to respond and John grew a bit nervous.

[I mean, I understand if you're not ready to meet yet. It's just that. I don't know. I think I like you.] –DoctorAceShot

[You're lonely.] –DuPinsFolly

[A bit. Like I said. Wish you were here.] –DoctorAceShot

There was another long pause.

[I like you too, John. A lot.] –DuPinsFolly

John leapt up, excitedly, typing out his reply,

[Come here?] –DoctorAceShot

[Why?] –DuPinsFolly

[So I can prove to you just how much I want you.] –DoctorAceShot

Okay, maybe that was a bit risky. He didn't want to scare the man off.

[I mean, how much I want you here in person.] –DoctorAceShot

[I see. I'd like to get to know you better before we move on to the next level.] –DuPinsFolly

John sighed with frustration.

[Alright. I can appreciate that.] –DoctorAceShot

[Besides, turn about is fair play, and you never responded to my question. What is it (you) like to do on a Friday night?] –DuPinsFolly

_Was he flirting?_

[If you were here, I'd show you.] –DoctorAceShot

[You could… tell me?] –DuPinsFolly

John grinned.

[Would you like me to?] –DoctorAceShot

[I would… like you to. Yes.] –DuPinsFolly

[First, I'd cook you supper. Then we'd watch some telly.] –DoctorAceShot

[Less intriguing answer than expected. What would you do next I wonder.] –DuPinsFolly

 _Excellent._  He was taking the bate, definitely flirting back.

[I would move over beside you, put my arm around you.] –DoctorAceShot

[Better. Then what.] –DuPinsFolly

John smirked, feeling a coiling of anticipation as he typed in his next response.

[I'd lean over and whisper into your ear.] –DoctorAceShot

[What would you say?] –DuPinsFolly

[I'd tell you how much I want you.] –DoctorAceShot

[Harlequin drivel. Unimaginative.] –DuPinsFolly

John glared at the screen.

[Fine. I'd pull you down, tear off your clothing and take you.] –DoctorAceShot

There was a momentary pause, and John cringed, hoping he hadn't presumed too much. (Hadn't the man been responsive though?)

[I hope in reality there would be a bit more… preparation involved.] –DuPinsFolly

John's heart leapt excitedly.

[Yes. It'd be slow. I'd torture you until you screamed my name, begging me to take you.] –DoctorAceShot

[So this is upon the assumption that it would not be I 'taking you'?] –DuPinsFolly

[We'd switch.] –DoctorAceShot

[Then after a short refractory period, I'd turn you over and make you writhe, tasting every inch of you. Then I'd ease myself inside of you, filling you, until you beg me, John, to relieve you. It'd be slow, then very, very fast. And very, very hard. Such that, it'd be interesting to see you try to walk the next day.] –DuPinsFolly

John leaned back in his chair, boxers tenting.  _God, what this man was doing to him._

This was  _hot._  And he was  _'very, very'_  aroused.

[That's. Oh God. I want you. Please. Come over.] –DoctorAceShot

[Another time. For now, John. Good night.] –DuPinsFolly

Ah. That maddening  _bastard._  John groaned with frustration and went off to take a nice hot shower.

With a bit of an… _issue_  to take care of.

…

[Two things. You implied in your profile that I could ask what in-fact your 'most private thing you're willing to reveal' is. Also, I noticed your 'what I am looking for' section missing.] –DoctorAceShot

[Is this merely an observation?] –DuPinsFolly

[No. I'm asking.] –DoctorAceShot

[Very well. Then I'll take this is two parts. Firstly, I will reveal to you, that at one time, I struggled with a drug addiction.] –DuPinsFolly

John furrowed his brow contemplating his response.

[Why? Or. I think I mean, how did this start?] –DoctorAceShot

[I needed a reprieve. Everything seemed very mundane. Hatefully so. The drugs were entertainment. Distraction. At the time, I was without clear direction, and then I realized I could utilize my skills and created a profession from them. It gave me purpose. A reason to continue.]

[Your. Research?] –DoctorAceShot

John paused.

[What was it you said you did again?] –DoctorAceShot

[Societal research. Into the human mind. Of a sort.] –DuPinsFolly

[Right. So then are you like a psychiatrist or something?] –DoctorAceShot

He genuinely hoped the man would take the 'or something' and add on to it.  
[Of a variety, in a sense. It's difficult to explain. But back to the disclosure I've made of my past drug habit. I had a point I was attempting to make. You know that quote where 'the only thing wrong with life is that one must live it daily'? Well, I've since realized that a form of companionship also aids to heal the banality of it. Which is a good lead into your next question. You wanted to know what I was 'looking for' in a partner?] –DuPinsFolly

[Yes. You never stated a preference for age range, relationship type, values, characteristics, etc.] –DoctorAceShot

[I would not have initially messaged you if you didn't fit my criteria.] –DuPinsFolly

[If you have no criteria to fit then I can't possibly do so.] –DoctorAceShot

[Erroneous.] -DuPinsFolly

[Then, I suppose my question is, why, of all people do you think I 'fit' your 'criteria'?] –DoctorAceShot

[You're smart. Superiorly witty. Clever. Interesting (at least more so than the rest of the human race). You keep me in check. You inspire me. Appeal to me in a variety of ways. Thus you fit my criteria exceedingly well.] –DuPinsFolly

John flushed, utterly pleased.

_God._

He knew he was falling hard. Siger was simply amazing. He could barely wait to meet him in person.

John grinned, just about ready to type his response-

"Hi, John!"

Amal walked into the break room, eyeing him curiously.

[Got to run. Break is over. Ttyl?] –DoctorAceShot

[Of course.] –DuPinsFolly

"So. Still chatting with the boyfriend?"

John grimaced, "I'm not exactly sure that's the right term. Yet."

"What's it been, like three weeks? Shouldn't you suggest a meet up?"

"He's er… not willing to. Quite yet. I'm thinking I might let him decide that one."

Amal smirked, "Right. Well. The lack of pic is a bit suspect, isn't it? He's probably ugly."

"That's not at all it," John scowled, "Don't be ridiculous."

The man shrugged, "Fine. If he doesn't want to meet yet, whatever, but you should still insist upon a pic. You know. Just to make sure he's not some lonely old broad or a teenager playing you for kicks. Or fat. Or bald."

John grinned, "Because being bald is just an instant detractor."

Amal sighed, "You know nothing about this bloke other than what he tells you. Don't be naïve, John."

"I'm not. I believe Siger. He's just wary of jumping into things too quickly. I'm not shallow. It doesn't matter what he looks like."

"Right. Because you'll be willing to boff him if he's hideous."

John scowled, "Shut it."

His friend narrowed his eyes, "You know I'm right. Force him out. At least get him to meet you somewhere public for some coffee or something. And if nothing else, at the very least, John, get him to give you his cell number."

"True. It's getting a bit expensive having to use the web on my phone just to IM him through the dating site."

"Yeah, I've been saying that, for awhile. Also, that way we can track the number to verify that this 'Siger' bloke actually exists."

John sighed reticently.

Amal was right. It was getting a bit weird. It was as if 'Siger' was some creation within his mind. A fantasy he yearned to be real.

And it was due time to put a face on that fantasy.

 _Though._ In a sense, as much as he wished to deny it,  _he already had._

Time to dispel  _that_ fiction, however. Surely proving Siger was in fact real, would aide in doing so.

…

To John's surprise, the man readily gave him his cell number, and John convinced Sherlock to track it and pull up the man's records.

Sure enough, Siger Ford was real after all.

That was a ridiculous weight off his shoulders.

He even had a page on Myspace  _and_ Facebook.

Yet, just as his OKC profile, these too, were sparing with regard to personal information and also lacked profile pictures. Except for Facebook, in which he'd depicted himself with a woodcut photo of a strange hybrid man-crane dressed as a Medieval scholar. Weird.

'  _Homo, ore et collo gruis'_

"…'Collo gruis?'"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively.

In fact, he was  _extremely_ dismissive about all of it in spite of John's pressing curiosity. Which in and of itself seemed a bit… _fishy_.

"It's none of my business."

John rolled his eyes, "I thought you made  _everything_  your business."

"Why should I waste my time investigating? He's your ' _boyfriend_ , John," Sherlock nearly spat out, "I'm not interested. I've more important things to do."

"Sherlock," John argued, "I'm asking you to just look in on it."

His companion frowned, "I don't see how it's your  _business_  to pry. Perhaps the man has good reason to be leery of exposing too much."

"What if he's not who he says he is? What if he's a… rogue agent or something?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and smirked, "Do you think that?"

John breathed out a sigh.  _Of course he didn't._ There was nothing even remotely sinister about the other man's intentions.  _Hell,_  he was so reticent to meet in person, surely he couldn't be a threat. No. If he wasn't what he said he was, surely he would've already bated John into his trap by now. John had certainly left open several opportunities for him to do so.

…

_Hi. -JW_

_Hi back. –SF_

_So what's the F stand for? –JW_

(Of course, he already knew the answer to that. Not that he wanted to inform Siger of his er…'pryings'.  _No,_  that wouldn't stand up too well…)

_Ford. And the 'W'? –SF_

_Watson. –JW_

_Dr. John Watson. Good name. A bit common, though. –SF_

_Thanks. I think. So what are you up to, today? –JW_

_Stuff. –SF_

_That's vague. Typical though. –JW_

_Haha. What are you doing right now? –SF_

_Guess. –JW_

_I never 'guess'. –SF_

_Making supper. –JW_

_I'd invite you, but I know you'd decline. –JW_

_Correct assumption. –SF_

_Will I ever get to meet you? In the flesh? –JW_

_Maybe. Yes. Eventually. –SF_

_What are you so hesitant about? –JW_

_I'm not. I just want to make sure about you first. –SF_

John sighed wearily.

_I'm sure about you. –JW_

_Talk later? –SF_

_I'm supposed to have tea with my old landlady. –JW_

_That's fine. We'll talk tomorrow then. Take care, John. –SF_

…

John headed home with a package of cakes in hand.

There were times he really,  _really_  missed 221B Baker Street. He and Sherlock had sat across from Mrs. Hudson delighting in her misadventures in Brixton with her nephew. It'd been so utterly  _familiar,_ and John ached with longing.

Well, at least he  _sort of_  had Siger to keep him company.

Sort of.

His phone bleeped with an incoming message.

_I've decided I'm sure about you as well, John. –SF_

_Tell me that in person. –JW_

After a pause of nearly a minute, John sighed with frustration. Maybe he should just give up. Move on to the next person. Clearly, Siger Ford was unwilling to ever lift a finger to advance their relationship.

To his surprise, as if clairvoyant, the man replied.

_What do you suggest, John. –SF_

His heart thudded within his chest.

_Meet me. Tomorrow. –JW_

_I'm not sure if that's a good idea. –SF_

John frowned. Damn it.

_Why are you afraid of meeting me? Does it have to do with the way you look? Because I promise, it doesn't matter. –JW_

_That's not it. –SF_

Then what was it? God, this was wretched being strung along like this. John wanted to meet this man so badly it  _hurt._ He's spent weeks getting to know him, being intrigued, entertained, educated,  _turned on_. He was completely enraptured by the man. Attracted to him on a deep level, and this was just  _torture._

_I'm afraid I won't be at all that you're expecting. That I won't live up to this idea of me you have. I don't want to disappoint you. –SF_

John bit his lip as he typed out his response, trying to reassure the man.

_I don't care. I'm not expecting anything. You've given me nothing to go on to even formulate an idea of what to expect. I promise, nothing about you could disappoint me. –JW_

He paused.

_I care about you. I like you. A lot. Whatever and whoever you are it will be more than enough. –JW_

_Like I said, I'm sure about you. –JW_

_Fine. Then 6:00 p.m. Hyde park. By the fountain. –SF_

Finally! At last!

_Great. I'll be there. –JW_

...

It was quarter past and John was beginning to get worried. Still, Siger Ford had yet to make his appearance.

Had he backed out? Second guessed himself?

Wracked with indecision, John finally gave in and texted the man.

No response.

He looked around at the surrounding greenery of spring, the air cool, and the sun warm, feeling utterly done in.

Not one person seemed to be heading in the direction of the fountain.

(Damn it.)

Dejectedly, he stared at his phone, willing it to bleep with a signaling text that the man was running late, or had been distracted with another engagement, or had decided to pull out last minute, anything but this  _wretched, awful silence._

As if out of nowhere, Sherlock came suddenly strolling up. John cringed. (Oh, bloody  _hell._ )

"What are  _you_ doing  _here,_ " John bit out with accusing suspicion. His gut twisted inwardly.  _Fuck._

"Nice way to greet a fellow," Sherlock retorted wryly, with a faked wounded expression.

"Sherlock. Seriously. What are you doing here?"

" _What are you_  doing here?" the man countered.

John crossed his arms angrily, "I asked you first."

Sherlock grinned, "I was passing through. Had a…  _situation_  to see about that pulled me out in this direction. You?"

Trying to suppress his burning humiliation at having been stood up and rejected, John swallowed, "Doesn't matter."

"You…busy?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

John sighed. Apparently he was not busy. Not going to be anytime soon— at any rate.

"You care to grab a bite? I'm a bit hungry. Long day and all. Angelos'?"

Well, may as well. Not like he had anything  _else_  planned.

"Sounds good," he agreed complacently.

…

"John…" Sherlock paused interrupting his own conversation, "Are you…alright?"

John looked back up at his companion, whom was peering at him with quiet concern.

"Er. Yeah. What were you saying?"

"Doesn't matter. You're not alright."

He shook his head sighing. Confessing as much.

"Nope. I'm not."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, "Tell me."

There was a pause before John set down his fork and matched the other man's gaze reticently, "I've just. Never mind. It's not that important."

"Clearly it is," he argued.

"It's just that," John frowned, "I er… found myself caring about this bloke, and he just, decided it all wasn't worth it."

Sherlock's face seemed to tighten inextricably.

"I know how that feels," he said quietly.

John's heart hammered guiltily inside his chest, his gut twisting with inward agony.

"Sherlock, I'm-"

His companion held up a hand, haltingly, "-Don't."

Reaching across the table, he covered John's hand with his own.

"He did not reject you. He could  _never_ reject you, John."

Stunned, he pulled his hand back from Sherlock's.

"What-?"

"He was late, yes, and for that, accept all apologies. But he still came."

John's head swam with the flood of realization and  _hurt._  Oh god. He'd known it was Sherlock.

There was a part of him that had been aware all along. Hadn't wanted to accept the glaring truth. It was so  _so obvious._ It all made complete sense. Every moment. Every shared word. Why he'd concealed his identity so adamantly. Why he'd initially forced John to reveal the truth behind his divorce with Mary. All the signs were there. DuPinsFolly's profile was Sherlock to a  _T._

_Oh God. What was this horrifying ache and embarrassment and despair._

(And… relief.)

All their  _candid_  conversations. And  _oh fuck._  The  _sexting._

John flushed heatedly just remembering it.

"You. You're him.  _God_. I'm such an idiot," John shook his head moving to get up. To go. To run.

Very Far Away.

Sherlock darted out a hand, staying John.

"Yes. Siger, er rather, Sigerson was the alias I used after Reichenbach. I… I wanted to tell you before now."

John glared, "Why. Why did you do this? I can't believe you  _lied_  to me. Yet again."

"Actually, I never outright ' _lied'_  to you, John, certainly, I circumnavigated the truth, but I never denied being DuPinsFolly."

After a moment of stomping down the urge to flee, John quickly built back up his innermost sense of fortitude and sat back down.

"Why did you do it," he demanded.

There was a pause.

Sherlock looked utterly decimated, " _Obvious_."

John felt his heart re-shatter all over again.

_Fuck._

"I'm sure about you. As I said. I have been for a long time. Even before I first told you. And then you were hurt John, and it was  _my fault._  And then I tried,  _I tried_ to not let you in, but it…was  _unfeasible._ Not an option. And by then you were married."

He exhaled, running a hand down his face.

" _You_  were, not entirely mistaken of my motivations, John. Of what you accused. After I…" Sherlock winced, "After I told you I… and _you_ , at supper in Meiringen, it…I could barely face the idea of seeing you, everyday, with Mary. But then, it was worse. Not seeing you at all."

He breathed deeply, "And then, John, when I came back, all I could think about was the idea that we could finally,  _finally_ be together. But you had already made up your mind; decided it was ' _not worth it'._  And all those dates, John. It was… _unreasonably_  painful to put up with. No matter how much of a concerted effort I put forth, I was unable to be alright with not having you to myself.  _I had_ to prove to you John, that I was the one you should be with. I saw no other way. You were unwilling to give me a chance to plead my case."

For a moment, John sat back in his seat, trying to let this all sink in, and he felt so,  _so heavy._

He had fallen in love all over again with Siger Ford. And of course, he had always  _known deep down_ who the man truly was.

"Forgive me," Sherlock whispered, his voice breaking.

John looked up at him.

"There's nothing to forgive, Sherlock."

"Hi, gents! You doing alright? Everything's on the house, as always," Angelo grinned.

"Thanks," John nodded, standing up.

He paused looking down anxiously at his friend, whom held his face down in his hands looking utterly crestfallen.

"Er… perhaps we could take this elsewhere?"

Sherlock gazed up with a baffled expression.

...

For a while, as they strolled down the street, side by side, John said nothing, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Finally, he broke the silence.

"I'm er… not happy…about the way you went about things. A bit not good, that. I mean, you can't blame me for being a bit… _peeved_."

Sherlock nodded with an inscrutable expression, barely daring to glance over at him.

John sighed.

"It's just that," he continued hesitantly, "I've had my reservations about… well. I'm unwilling to be a distraction for you."

"John I-"

"-No. Hear me out. Fact is. I do understand your initial logic for putting aside your…er,  _feelings_. Makes sense. I mean, yes. I put myself in danger by just being with you. And that, in and of itself is…well, I don't want to be a  _risk._  So to speak. Nor do I want you to not do your job for my sake just for your peace of mind. I don't even think you could do so."

"If you and I both understand the 'risk' John, then-"

"-Stop," John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and turned himself to face the taller man, "I was saying, I do understand the logic, Sherlock. Not that… not that I am unwilling to reconsider."

For a moment, the other man's eyes gleamed hopefully.

"It's become apparent, that no matter what happens, this is inevitable. And there's no point stopping it. It's a risk we're both going to have to be willing to take. I…" John sighed wearily, "I don't think it's possible to stop myself from loving you."

 _God. He'd said it._  After all this time. And it was so,  _so unequivocally true._  And it felt exhilarating to speak the words aloud for the first time.

Sherlock gazed at him with a fiery, impatient need, flushing hotly and a sudden, heightened awareness took hold.

"John," he whispered, reaching out a hand to cup his companion's cheek. His eyes glittered, speaking for him, what needed not be said, but was clearly of duplicating sentiment.

And then, they kissed. In the middle of the sidewalk, barely taking notice of others passing by granting them a rather wide berth.

"Oi! Get a room," someone shouted.

John backed away blushing furiously, "Maybe we should. Er…"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, agreeing.

They darted through the door of 221B, panting, out of breath.

Sherlock grinned and looked sideways over at John, and John grinned back, and with swift immediacy they were on each other, all over, desperately clambering for hold.

Nothing existed outside of the joining of their lips and tongues and breath, all consuming, all rendered into some kind of woven spell holding them, pressing them together with quenching lust and perfect completion.

Sherlock's arms, wrapped around him, holding him impossibly close, and they broke apart mutually.

Sherlock leaned in, their foreheads pressing together as they deeply inhaled, the cold air rushing to replenish depleted lungs.

John breathed heavily.

_God, why had they taken so long to do this?_

Sherlock smirked, with glazed over eyes, "Shut up. You're thinking too loud. It's distracting."

"Does that happen often?"

"Bed. Now," Sherlock demanded.

The two men practically leapt through the door of Sherlock's bedroom, the space between burning hotter than a roaring furnace.

The same heat suffused John as Sherlock wrestled him down onto the bed with abundant energy.

John dragged a heavy tongue down his companion's (lover's?) neck, and Sherlock arched up into him moaning luxuriously. He tilted his head back giving John better access, nearly purring, going limply submissive, thereby allowing John to take lead. And  _Christ_  was that  _Hot_ beyond all reckoning.

Burning with unspent months of pent up lust he pressed his arousal down into the other man's, and it was absolutely glorious. Stars exploded behind his eyes as Sherlock did something funny involving his tongue in John's ear, and then plundered his mouth once again.

The two of them nearly vibrated with sheer need, and thus, taking off clothes was a bit of a clumsy undertaking as they could barely take their hands off one another long enough to do so.  _God was it addicting._  Sherlock was everywhere all at once, all pervading, inundating, fluid and deluging.

He wasn't sure he could ever get enough of this, if he would ever,  _ever have enough of this beautiful man._

John's breath hitched, as Sherlock languidly lapped at him through the fabric of his boxers, arching into his mouth. Teasingly, his hands roamed over his chest, grazing across his pert, attentive nipples.

He nearly cried out as his boxers were yanked past his hips and he was suddenly enclosed within that hot, brilliant mouth, suckling him for all he was worth.

It was almost too much, and he bucked up, grabbing the man's mess of hair, before he let him go, with a 'pop'. John's erection slapped wetly against his belly and he groaned with the loss.

"Stop complaining. I'll be right back."

Sherlock quickly leapt off the bed and pulled off his trousers, and John gaped at his lithe, smooth form as he bent over, searching into a drawer. As he moved, John could not keep from staring at his perfectly formed rear end. The two pale, rounded globes satiny and inviting and then he turned around again, his engorged dick red, considerably well sized and apparently circumcised, a pulsing vein running up to a thick, plush head where at the tip was a creamy drop of glistening pre-ejaculate and  _Oh._ Sherlock was looking at him with a crooked smirk.

"I appreciate the admiration, John. But I thought we might follow the format of our conversation from a few nights ago."

John flushed, "Oh. So you er… want me to er."

Sherlock's heavy lidded gaze grew dark as he grinned lazily, handing John the small bottle of lubricant, "Yes, John. I want you to  _take me._ "

With a generous application of the slick oil, John carefully stretched the other man, and he moaned gloriously, wantonly bucking back into John's hand. Sherlock draped his legs around John's neck as he moved to enter him allowing him better access, and  _Dear God_ was it exquisitely hot and all encompassing tightness. He thrust forward and took the other man, gripping his hips and stabilizing himself as he pumped into him. Sherlock's met John's heated gaze before clenching shut his eyes and allowing his head to roll back, the tendons in his neck strained with his tension.

And if this is what the completion meant,  _God,_ but it was decadent. Like something forbidden, far,  _far_ too good to be real.

Sherlock came explosively, clenching around John which in turn tipped him over the edge. His balls tightened instantaneously and he blanked white, shouting, as he pulsed out his hot seed into the other man.

John slumped forward breathing harshly, draped over Sherlock before rolling over to wipe himself off.

Sherlock was panting open mouthed staring at the ceiling, his face suffused with a deep flush that suited him wonderfully. John couldn't resist leaning forward to kiss him again, drinking him in.

To his utter astonishment his flaccid penis seemed to be quickly growing to half-mast with interest yet again, nudging itself against the other man's hip.

Sherlock smirked, "Short refractory period, indeed."

John looked down to where Sherlock was glancing, seeing his partner's member swell in solidarity.

 _Well._ That was… relatively healthy of them, considering.

Then again, it  _had been ages for John._ And really...John drew in a sharp intake of breath,  _well Christ,_ it had been even longer for Sherlock.

"So. My turn?"

Sherlock grinned broadly.

…

As they stretched out side by side, lazily wrapped about each other, both fuzzy round the edges— glowing with repletion, John breathed a contented sigh as Sherlock nuzzled his face into his neck.

(Who knew he was a cuddler?)

His lover continued to lay soft, small kisses with his warm, soft lips along his jaw line and nudged his ear affectionately. "John," he murmured, "Stay."

"I will for now, but I  _do_  sort of have an apartment."

"Break your lease. Move back here," Sherlock frowned petulantly, "I'm not allowing you to leave my bed ever again."

John laughed, "On one condition."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, quirking a slight half-grin, "What would that be?"

"I'm not helping you pay your cell phone bills. You've got a problem with opening up far too many accounts. I mean seriously? How did you even get that one under a false name?"

"I have my ways," Sherlock smirked, folding his arms behind his head, "Any other stipulations I should be warned of?"

John smiled, coursing a hand through the man's tangled locks, "No more pretending to jump off ledges. You're stuck with me now."

Sherlock turned over and gazed at John with an open, adoring expression and took his hand raising it to his lips, pressing a kiss inside the palm of his hand, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"So I suppose this means you're married to me now. In a sort of 'poly' relationship with your work?"

"It's unconventional, but then, I get a sense that you like that kind of thing," Sherlock mused.

John sighed, "You're probably right."

Sherlock looked at his lover meaningfully, "You're more important than anything else, to me, John. The rest? It's all  _'transport'._ "

"Yeah _, I love you_ , too," John muttered, grinning happily as he pulled the other man against him.

They fell asleep just like that, locked in each other's embrace, irrevocably belonging together as if it had been prescripted.

And all was good.

…

END!

A/N: er…cheers? Free shots all around?


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